Pointblank
by worldaccordingtofangirls
Summary: WWII AU: Arthur is a gifted volunteer doctor. Alfred is a bomber pilot. Love strikes us pointblank, right between the eyes, in the most inconvenient of places. The battlefield is no exception. USUK. Yaoi.
1. Chapter 1

_**Operation Pointblank**__ was the code name for the Allied Combined Bomber Offensive, the official term for the air assault on Nazi Germany which took place from June 14__th__, 1943 until April 19__th__, 1944. During the attack, countless allied servicemen unleashed tons upon tons of explosives onto enemy towns and cities in a massive effort to destroy German aircraft industry and injure citizen morale. Although the Allies eventually came out ahead, much of the operation was ineffectual, in part due to the fierceness of the Luftwaffe but also by fault of poor planning and stubbornness on part of both Britain and the United States. As a result of this clumsiness and bickering amongst leaders in the Anglo-American alliance, the Allied aircraft industry and reserves suffered greatly, and many young pilots lost their lives. However, despite its staggering cost, without the eventual success of the operation, it is possible that victory would not have gone to the Allies._

_**-**__Love strikes us pointblank, right between the eyes, in the most inconvenient of places.__**-**_

_**-The battlefield is no exception.-**_

* * *

><p>Airman First Class Matthew Williams was down for the count.<p>

They brought him in scarcely conscious, lying broken across a stretcher, glasses clinging to his face with crumpled and half-melted frames. His uniform was torn, stiff with dried blood in places, and his arm was obviously broken, fastened to his chest at an odd angle by a makeshift linen sling. He was filthy, covered in mud and soot and bruises, with his head clumsily bandaged. Missing in action for months, the paramedics told Arthur. He was a miracle. Well, Arthur replied sardonically, he was certainly bad, but not the worst he had seen since the war began, and he could tell by the fitful but persistent rise and fall of his chest and the pained but defiant curl of his lower lip and the angry flush in his cheeks that he would be fine, perhaps even better off in the end, because those wounds would keep him out of the air for a good long time.

Further inspection revealed that the Matthew's leg was broken too, and hadn't received proper care. Arthur gingerly peeled away his uniform trousers and pressed his fingertips against the purple bruises that bloomed beneath the pale skin of his knee like the wild violets that littered the fields of Germany and France in the springtime, striking a startling juxtaposition with the dead who called the same soil home. Elizaveta, having bustled over with her arms overflowing with antiseptics and bandages, finished undressing the poor boy and immediately began to dab ointment on the impressive burns that stretched over his back and shoulders, sighing at the sight of the angry new scar tissue that twisted his skin almost all the way to his navel, still broken and bleeding in places.

Arthur grit his teeth and snapped the boy's leg back into place with one swift motion of his hands, letting out a hiss between his teeth as if to apologize for the crack and low groan that followed. Elizaveta winced, but quickly hardened her expression and kept treating the burns, carefully winding long snowy strips of gauze around Matthew's back and shoulders.

"He's scarcely nineteen," she murmured, having come across his dog tags. "Canadian. Drafted just two years ago. He's a hero."

Arthur wiped the sweat from his brow as he began to splint the broken leg, glad that Matthew had since fallen unconscious and would be spared the pain.

"We don't know that," he muttered, "he's very likely just some poor fool caught up in this mess."

Elizaveta rolled her eyes as she tied off the fresh gauze and reached up to remove the old, bloodstained bandages from around Matthew's head.

"Aren't we all?" She frowned at the gash that stretched between his temples. "It's infected," she sighed, "he'll be here a long time, poor thing."

"_Lucky _thing," Arthur corrected, finishing the splint and going to Matthew's elbow. "He's got a nasty break here as well. And those burns," he glanced at his chest, where the edges of the mass of scar tissue peeked from beneath the new bandages. "No, he won't be seeing combat anytime soon. He should count his blessings."

"I suppose so," Elizaveta brought a bowl of water and a towel, beginning to rinse the ash from the boy's hair. "He's blond," she murmured at one point, pressing a damp rag against his forehead and wiping away the drops that curved down his cheeks. "He must have been handsome."

"He will be again," Arthur muttered, "bet he's got a girl back somewhere, waiting for him. They all do."

"Probably," Elizaveta stiffened as Matthew shifted beneath her hands, a rattling sigh escaping his lips. "Dr. Kirkland, he's waking up. Can I give him some morphine?"

To Elizaveta, asking permission was merely a courtesy, and she was already off to the cabinet, heels clicking briskly against the tile floors. Arthur leaned back and told her not too much, the boy would have to learn to deal with a lot of pain and it was best that he start early, and then returned to his work with a roll of his eyes. She was too tenderhearted to be a war nurse, really, as much as she tried to hide it.

He slipped the makeshift sling from around Matthew's neck and got down to dealing with the fracture properly, hoping that clumsy hands and time hadn't ruined the arm beyond repair. After a long interval of tense work, Elizaveta returned and gave Matthew a dose of painkiller before she set herself to making him more comfortable, fluffing his pillow and sponging the dirt from his face and forcing him take a little water before she allowed him to drowse as the drugs kicked in.

The boy had just slipped completely into unconsciousness and Arthur was tying off his new sling when an enormous crash came from the hallway. This was immediately followed by a flurry of raised voices and footsteps before someone could be heard shouting and the door to the infirmary snapped open.

"That's right, whether you like it or not! Hell, I don't care if you've got some shitty degree, he's my little brother and I have to see him! No, I'll report _you _to the authorities! Oh, like you're really going to have me dismissed – you need every last one of us _yanks _and you know it! Look, I really don't give a sweet damn about what you say, I'm going in!"

And a moment later a young man was bolting across the infirmary, pursued by a handful of flustered-looking doctors and nurses and set on what seemed a collision course with Matthew's bed. Before Arthur could react, he had tripped to a stop and was gripping the metal railing, jarring the bed and the new splints rather badly and immediately causing Matthew to groan and open his eyes, blinking blearily up at the intruder.

"Alfred?" he smiled faintly, "it can't be…"

The intruder - Alfred - exploded into a grin. "I might say the same thing, you asshole! You had me worried sick, you know? Boy, when rumor got around that you were here I just couldn't believe it. For a second I thought those damn krauts had really got you."

Matthew closed his eyes again and shook his head.

"Never, Al."

"Course not, you're my baby brother, after all," Alfred grinned. "A real hero." And he actually made to reach out and grip Matthew's splinted leg, at which point Arthur snapped from his shock just in time to lunge forwards and latch onto his wrist.

"And just _what _do you think you're doing?" he grabbed onto Alfred's collar and yanked him to his feet, veering so close that their noses nearly touched. "Do you have any idea of how much _pain _that boy is in right now?"

Alfred blinked down at him; he was covered in soot and smelled like motor oil and cigarette smoke.

"A lot?" he asked uncertainly, as if anyone had actually been expecting an answer. Arthur was still for a moment, then let out a hiss of disgust and let go of the Alfred's collar, wiping his hand on the back of his medical coat because the soot that covered the boy from head to toe had smudged onto his fingertips.

"This one probably won't see combat ever again," Arthur spat, glaring and gesturing back at Matthew, "and _certainly _not if you're allowed within three feet of him. Who are you, anyways?"

Alfred picked himself up and straightened his glasses, meeting Arthur's acrid gaze without the slightest trace of remorse.

"Alfred F. Jones," he announced, planting his hands on his hips, "bomber pilot. We're based right across from here, you know," he added, seeming to grow a little more uncertain, "news travels fast."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "So it would seem." He turned back to Matthew, straightening the blankets across his chest and checking to see that Alfred had done no serious damage; fortunately, it seemed that his display had succeeded in causing a great deal of alarm and nothing more.

"And who're you?"

Arthur glanced over his shoulder, surprised; he thought the boy would have had the good sense to leave by then.

"Arthur Kirkland, volunteer doctor," he snapped, "but you needn't bother to remember it, seeing as I never want to see your face around here again, Mr. Jones. Frankly, you're a hazard, and I can't have you in this hospital."

Alfred gaped for a moment before anger crackled to life behind the lopsided frames of his glasses.

"You can't do that!" he cried, taking a step forwards. "He's my baby brother, I have to make sure he's alright!"

Arthur shot him a cold look, unimpressed by the little break in his voice.

"I'm afraid that's my job, Mr. Jones," he said crisply, snapping the lapels of his medical coat for emphasis. "It would be best that you didn't interfere."

Alfred's eyebrows drew up at the corners and he straightened his glasses as if correcting the angle of the lenses would change Arthur's mind.

"Come on…"

"I'm rather adamant in my decisions, I fear."

"Please? I won't mess around again, I promise."

"The answer is _no_, Mr. Jones."

"I'll only come for an hour a day, really! I won't get in your hair at all, I swear."

"_Absolutely not._"

Alfred opened his mouth, but Arthur lifted his hand.

"Out of my sight, Mr. Jones. This is your final warning. I do hope you understand the kind of authority I enjoy around this place."

Alfred bit down on his lower lip, wringing his hands and looking very conflicted before he finally seemed to deflate, running a hand through his hair in defeat.

"So no second chances, huh?"

Arthur sighed in relief and shook his head.

"Never. After all," he lifted his chin into the air, gazing down at Alfred past the slope of his nose. "I happen to have a reputation to uphold."

* * *

><p>"So how is he?<p>

Arthur turned from the sink to find a young man bending over Matthew's bed with a concerned expression on his face, hands tucked into the pockets of a battered American leather bomber jacket. He was wearing the standard uniform of the pilots that belonged to the neighboring allied airbase, so Arthur supposed he might be an old friend of the patient or something of the like. He dried his hands and joined the young man at the side of the bed, finding Matthew to be fast asleep. He reached down to ruffle his hair fondly.

"He's a strong one," he answered honestly. "It's only been a few days since he's come in and he's already showing signs of improvement. Not to mention," he smirked, running a hand through his hair rather self-importantly. "He's got the finest doctor Britain has to offer."

To his surprise, the young man snorted, though he tried to muffle the sound against the crook of his elbow, and turned his face away. Raising an eyebrow, Arthur leaned out further over the bed, craning his neck to try to get a proper glimpse of the young man's face.

"And what, exactly, is so funny?"

The boy turned to face him and Arthur swallowed heavily. He was difficult to recognize without the thick coating of soot and grease disguising the fine gold of his hair and the strong square line of his jawbone, with his glasses perched clean and straight across the bridge of his nose instead of jarred lopsidedly across his face, but there was no mistaking that cheeky grin, the boyish petulance, that sharp self-assured crackle in those high blue eyes.

Elizaveta returned from filing some documents just as Arthur was straining to push a struggling Alfred into the hallway, ramming his shoulder against his back only to have him cling more tightly to the doorframe, flailing his legs and swinging his head from side to side and shouting that he wouldn't go through that damn door, not even if it killed him! She stepped to the side, raising an eyebrow and tucking her clipboard beneath her arm, allowing the spectacle to drag on a few moments more.

"I keep telling you, he's my baby brother!" Alfred was shouting over his shoulder. "I can't just leave him here!'

"This is a bloody _hospital_, Mr. Jones, therefore I can assure you that he will be in excellent hands!" Arthur made another attempt at forcing Alfred through the door and only ended up jarring his shoulder rather painfully. He swore loudly and drew back a step to actually grip at his hair in frustration.

"It's my _duty _to make sure he's alright!" Alfred insisted, still clinging to the doorframe with all his might, though he had stopped thrashing his legs. "I won't move no matter how much you try!"

"Fucking yank, stubborn as a mule," Arthur growled under his breath, rolling up the sleeve of his medical coat. "Well, we'll just have to see about that, won't we, eh?"

However, before he could make his final attempt at banishing Alfred to the hallway once and for all, Elizaveta had unlatched his other hand from the back of the boy's jacket and was shaking her head with a mixture of exasperation, disdain, and amusement.

"Oh, lighten up, won't you?" she shrugged. "It _is _his little brother, after all."

Arthur gaped as she went to help Alfred down from the doorway (where he had become rather stuck), accepted his enthusiastic gratitude with a smile, and allowed him to scamper back to Matthew's beside unhindered. She grabbed onto Arthur's collar when he tried to pursue his escaped felon, and they struggled for a moment before Arthur swore under his breath and turned, extending an accusing finger at his captor.

"Even _you _would betray me, for _that _simpering idiot?"

Elizaveta rolled her eyes, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, doctor. He doesn't seem like such a bad guy," she shrugged. "Give him another chance."

Arthur batted her hand away, glowering. "I do not give second chances."

"Yes, yes, I know," she patted his shoulder. "You have a reputation to uphold. Well," she shot him a wink, eyes sparkling. "I say even the oldest of dogs can be taught some new tricks."

* * *

><p>Alfred was obviously a creature of habit. He returned to the hospital every day at the exact same time, this being just at dusk, when training was over and the doctors were winding down from the day anyways. His hair was always slightly damp, so Arthur suspected that he hurried over right after he took his evening shower, probably so as not to be covered in soot from working with his plane all day. Even so, he was always asked to wash his hands before he was allowed anywhere near a patient, and after he had done so he was always instructed to sit quietly at the side of the bed and do neither anything bothersome nor potentially damaging.<p>

Alfred was able to comply with almost all of these demands. The only one that seemed to give him trouble was the concept of being quiet, and by the end of one week, Arthur wasn't sure if the fool even registered that he made a scene whenever he opened his mouth. It seemed more that Alfred was simply always on the brink of explosion, that he overflowed with excitement even at the least exciting things, and couldn't help but express this to anyone and everyone unfortunate enough to be nearby. Elizaveta thought it was endearing and often took a brief break to have a chat about the day's trials or Alfred's childhood or the specific mechanics of a bomber jet or whatever other topic happened to be on hand. Contrarily, it gave Arthur a headache, and yet for all he avoided conversation he seemed to be the one most often victimized by Alfred's mindless anecdotes and massive armada of mediocre jokes and subsequent booming laughter.

Of course, when Matthew was awake, they were all spared the trauma, but Elizaveta was heavy-handed with the morphine and this was rarely the case. Sometimes, Alfred would flit from patient to patient and try to strike up conversations with them, but Arthur tended to shoo him away in these scenarios (somewhat counter-intuitively, he might admit), so he quickly lost interest and stopped trying. Thus, through this imperfect system of overhearing and nonreciprocal conversation, Arthur and Alfred began to get to know each other inadvertently and much to Arthur's initial distaste.

Nearly two weeks had passed since they had brought Matthew in and he was almost well enough to stay awake for hours at a time during the morning and mid-afternoon. Therefore, it wasn't long before Alfred was complaining about how terribly bored he must be and voicing the thought they should get a wheelchair and take him out for strolls in the garden.

Arthur glanced up from his clipboard with an amused quirk of the brow.

"And what gardens are these, Mr. Jones?"

Alfred blinked, seeming surprised that Arthur had actually been listening.

"I dunno. Must be something out there," he shrugged. "You can't just let him rot here."

Arthur glanced skeptically at the peacefully sleeping Matthew. His burns had started to peel away to be replaced by tender new skin, and the gash across his face was nothing more than a long pink seam of scar tissue. He was still in some pain, but when he was awake there was a glitter of life in his eyes that promised a full recovery.

"Come now, I'd hardly say he's rotting."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "I didn't mean it literally."

"Look, Mr. Jones," Arthur had returned to his paperwork and he punctuated each syllable with the scratch of his pen. "There's nothing but mud and grass out there until we reach your base, and I don't suppose you boys have been particularly occupied with botany, mm?"

Alfred frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. "You could at least let him roll around the hospital."

Arthur sighed. "As soon as he's well enough."

"I say he already is."

"Well, I say he isn't, and unfortunately for you, I'm the doctor. And a very good one at that, if I dare say so myself. I don't know if you realize, Mr. Jones, but I -"

"Have a reputation to uphold, yeah, yeah." Alfred had returned to glumly fiddling with the edge of Matthew's sheets, his cheek rested in the palm of his hand, jarring his glasses up at an odd angle. "So you say."

"So I do say."

They were quiet for a moment, the whispering of Arthur's pen and the soft sounds of the hospital filling the space between them.

"Hey, doc," Arthur could see from the corner of his eye that Alfred was gazing straight at him now, one eyebrow cocked challengingly. "What gives you the right to such an ego, anyways?"

Arthur glanced up sharply. "Do you have any idea how old I am, Mr. Jones? I'll have you know - " His words broke off into a muttered swear as he realized that, in his surprise at being asked such an impudent question, he had made a wild mark across the paper. He rubbed at it frantically as Alfred shook his head, no, he didn't know how old Arthur was.

"Twenty-six," Arthur hissed, satisfied that he was able to pass off the mistake. "Do you know when I went to medical school?"

Alfred gave another negative.

"When I was nineteen. That's at least two years early, if you're unaware. Do you know who my employer was before I volunteered at this sodding establishment?"

Alfred tilted his head to one side and the light slanted off the frames of his glasses. Arthur smirked.

"Cambridge. As in, the university. As in, not exactly your standard mum-and-pop clinic. As in, I'm rather a prodigy. Therefore," he made the last mark on the paperwork with a satisfied flourish, folding the documents back into place and setting the clipboard on the nearby counter. "I believe I'm somewhat entitled to a bit of an ego, wouldn't you agree?"

Alfred seemed to consider this for a moment before he finally shrugged.

"Guess so. But I still don't see what this has to do with not letting Matt outside."

Despite himself, Arthur couldn't help but feel a little irked. Usually when he rattled off his list of accomplishments, eyes widened and mouths fell slightly open and a stream of gushing and compliments ensued. Men were surprised and raised their hackles. Women melted. Professors and socialites shook his hand with a firm if not grudging respect. But Alfred had merely shrugged, been vaguely rude, and returned to fiddling with the blankets. Arthur wanted to scold him, but that would be undignified and potentially damaging to his reputation, so he merely sniffed and got up to go organize some medicines.

"Hey, doc."

Arthur glanced over his shoulder to find Alfred scrutinizing him, one hand straightening his glasses, a faint crease between his brows.

"Yes, Mr. Jones?"

"You don't seem to like me very much."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I say, how very astute of you."

Alfred chuckled. "So have you got a reason?"

Arthur snorted, uncapping an empty bottle of antiseptic so that he could refill it. "Oh, Mr. Jones. An entire list, of that I can assure you."

To his credit, Alfred echoed his laugh good-naturedly; he leaned back in his chair and smiled lazily up at the ceiling, drumming his fingers on the railing of Matthew's bed.

"Anything I can do to change your mind?"

Arthur cast him a doubtful look. "I suppose you could try."

Alfred sat upright again with a dangerous grin, folding his arms over his chest and lifting his chin in the air as if he were looking at Arthur for the first time. A moment more of this and Arthur set down the bottle of antiseptic he had been refilling and turned all the way around with a glare.

"Mr. Jones, if whatever you are thinking of has even the slightest possibility of causing any sort of disruption whatsoever, let me tell you that you have been warned."

Alfred dipped his chin in affirmation, his grin deepening, and drew his legs up to his chest so that he could spin around in his chair. His silence was unnerving and Arthur swallowed, turning back to organizing the medicines and muttering about not knowing what he had gotten himself into.

"I bet you'll come around in no time," Alfred finally said, more of singing the challenge while still spinning in his chair like some ridiculous overgrown child playing soldier. "Even _you_ can't be that stubborn."

Relieved that he wasn't being so dangerously quiet anymore, Arthur glanced over his shoulder with a little smirk.

"Ah, but remember, Mr. Jones," he winked despite himself. "I am an Englishman."

Alfred laughed aloud, tilting his head so far back that Arthur could see his Adam's apple bob beneath the thin skin of his throat.

"Well played," he chuckled, snapping back upright, eyes dancing. "But remember, Dr. Kirkland, I am an American."

Arthur snorted, turning his nose into the air. "I'm afraid I fail to see your point."

A smirk toyed with the corners of Alfred's mouth.

"Don't you get it? You guys are nothing but stubborn and we're nothing but persistent," the smirk was fully present now, stretching up almost to the frames of his glasses, but his eyes sparkled and there was a touch of warmth to his expression that caught Arthur off-guard. "Seems we were made to push and pull with each other."

Arthur blinked, then coughed into his fist.

"And get nowhere in the process," he muttered.

Alfred shrugged, giving his chair another whirl and gripping onto the sides as he spun.

"You can't say that for sure," he chirped as his momentum slowed. "We'll win this war yet."

Arthur smiled faintly. "That wasn't what I was referring to. And stop worrying that chair."

Alfred stuck out his tongue but set his feet back on the floor without complaint. His curiosity had evidently won out over any protests he might have attempted: the next words from his mouth inquired as to what Arthur had meant if he wasn't talking about the war. At this, Arthur paused, irritably realizing that he wasn't really sure, and violently shoved the medicines back in the cabinet, shutting the doors and straightening the lapels of his medical coat with a sigh.

"Nothing, I suppose. Sorry, I was being vague," he glanced at the clock. Late; Alfred would usually have been gone by then, but he was still nestled quite snugly in his chair at Matthew's bedside, eyes flitting between his younger brother and Arthur intermittently.

"Oy, shouldn't you be going?"

Alfred followed his gaze to the clock and swallowed, straightening his glasses.

"Shit, is that really the time?"

"I'm afraid so."

And with that Alfred was stumbling from the room with his bomber jacket flapping out wildly behind him, nearly tripping over himself as he hastily told Matthew goodbye and skidded towards the door, startling an incoming nurse on his way. However, despite all his hurry, he still caught himself on the doorframe so that he could shout that he would change Arthur's mind if it was the last thing he did, that was a promise!

Arthur sighed and asked himself what a yank's promise was really worth anyways.

* * *

><p>When Alfred returned the following day, Matthew was awake, and the two chattered on (or Alfred chattered on while Matthew listened and occasionally interjected a thought of his own) until Matthew was entirely exhausted and drifted off in the middle of Alfred's recount of how that evening he had slipped and fallen in the shower and how everyone had laughed and how it had been just <em>so <em>embarrassing, at which point Arthur took it upon himself to bring the stream of talk to a halt.

It took Alfred a moment to realize that his brother had fallen asleep, but once he was aware of this he blushed, bringing his hand up to the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Aw geez…" he sighed. "I guess I wore him out, didn't I…"

"He's not your first victim," Arthur rolled his eyes. "But you needn't look so guilty; he'll sleep quite well after that. Come to think of it, you've probably done him a favor."

Alfred nodded, but didn't smile or look up or try to make a comeback, merely rested his elbows on the bedrail. Arthur left him to go check up on a few of the other patients, and to his surprise, he didn't hear anyone trying to strike up a conversation with a passing nurse or doctor during the entire interval. In fact, when he returned the boy was still bent over the bed, following the steady rise and fall of Matthew's chest with his gaze.

"Hey."

Alfred didn't move.

"Mr. Jones."

Still nothing; he appeared to be quite transfixed by the rhythm of his brother's breathing.

"Christ, boy, what's gotten into you?"

Alfred finally came upright with a jolt, blinking up at Arthur almost irritably before he seemed to recall his surroundings. He let out a sigh, resting his cheek in the palm of his hand, and Arthur frowned.

"Are you feeling alright?"

Alfred nodded and glanced back at his brother, a crease appearing between his brows.

"Say, doc," he paused. "He…uh…well," he bit down on his lower lip for a moment. "He will get better, won't he?"

Arthur blinked. "Of course he will."

Alfred glanced up at him over the frames of his glasses, seeming unconvinced, and Arthur swallowed at his expression. Sadness and uncertainty fitted him so poorly, pinching at the corners of his mouth and eyes like an ill-tailored suit might pinch at the shoulders and waist, and Arthur was surprised to realize that he found this even more irritating than the fool's usual attitude.

"Oh, stop that," he hissed, and found himself reaching out to push at Alfred's shoulder. "Moping is certainly not going to change anything. Your brother will be good as new before you know it. He's in excellent hands, or have you forgotten, Alfred?"

Alfred blinked, and was quiet for a very long moment.

"The best of hands," he said eventually, as if he were testing the shape of the words with the tip of his tongue.

Arthur gripped his shoulder firmly, satisfied. "So there's no call for worrying. Chin up. Unhappiness doesn't suit you."

Alfred nodded slowly, peering at Arthur over the frames of his glasses, again as if he were seeing him for the first time. After a moment of silence and staring Arthur decided that he was simply being strange and chose to ignore him as per usual, going to fetch his trusty clipboard and settling down on a nearby stool to finish out the day's paperwork.

They were quiet for nearly ten minutes, Arthur reckoned, again filling the space between them with the sound of scribbling and the muffled background noises of the hospital, the chatter of heels against tile and the rustle of sheets and the murmur of hushed voices.

"Hey, doc."

Arthur looked up to find that Alfred was still surveying him, though this time around there was the suggestion of a smile at the corners of his mouth, and quirked a brow questioningly.

"Something amusing?"

"Not really," Alfred leaned back and looked as if he were about to start spinning his chair again before he seemed to remember himself. "Just seems like I'm already getting to you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You finally called me Alfred."

Arthur blinked, opened his mouth, and shut it again. Alfred was full-on grinning by then.

"What," Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Are you under the impression that I'm starting to warm up to you just because I finally used a familiar proper noun as a means of address?"

Alfred nodded. Arthur snorted and said that he was quite a piece of work and probably wasn't even sure what a familiar proper noun was, to which Alfred replied that as far as he was concerned it was a term of endearment. This prompted Arthur to chuck his pen at him and then wake Matthew up trying to get it back. One of the other doctors shot him an odd look and of course he immediately remembered his reputation and grew very flustered and angrily banished Alfred from the room.

But still, when the fool was safely sent away, Arthur turned back to his clipboard, set the tip of his retrieved pen to the page, and smiled.

* * *

><p>Hi everyone, and welcome to my new USUK AU! The fic will run for about fifteen chapters and I am absolutely <em>beside <em>myself with excitement, so I hope you will enjoy reading this story as much as I am sure to enjoy writing it. **In addition,** please note the rating,which will come into effect later. :3

**Briefly:** Our story begins in early December, 1943, and is set in a fictional allied base and neighboring war hospital somewhere near Cambridge University. Franada will be an eventual side-pairing. **Updates will be weekly, **with warning in advance for irregularities.

**HUGE thanks** to the lovely Trumpet-Geek, my friend and the official history consultant for this project. Do not doubt that without her WWII expertise and willingness to research where I am too lazy to do so, the plot of this story would be nothing but a string of historical blasphemies. See, TG, there _is _a use for your history degree out there somewhere! XD

This being said, I will gladly field any questions regarding setting, rank, timeline, combat, etcetera, seeing as I am actually trying to absorb this information myself, lololol. And my parents say fandom is a waste of time…

**Thank you so much for reading, **and I would be thrilled to hear your thoughts. ^^

Until the next chapter!


	2. Chapter 2

Matthew was getting better by the day, and, well, so was Alfred. As much as Arthur disliked having to realize this, at the same time he was also having trouble ignoring it, namely because Alfred never made himself very easy to ignore. The fool still exploded into the infirmary at the same time every day without fail, his hair still damp from the showers while his hands were still always somehow smudged with soot. He still complained loudly and pouted and stuck out his tongue and sassed Arthur when he was asked to wash up, and he still sat himself at the side of Matthew's bed and proceeded to talk incessantly for the duration of approximately one hour. Admittedly, much of this stream of one-sided conversation still consisted of mindless anecdotes or groundless musings, but as Arthur worked at his clipboard or the sink or in the medicine cabinets, as he flitted from patient to patient and took notes and gave orders, he would sometimes catch a fragment of something different, something important or something that made him smile despite himself, amidst the boy's general babbling.

He was learning things about the life of the pilot that he had never thought to know. They woke before the sun every morning and when they shaved the foam would sometimes freeze to their cheeks. Apparently, Alfred loved to break pieces off and make toy weapons of them, though he complained that sometimes bits of skin came along as well. After the pilots had washed up, they ate breakfast and went for their morning run. Arthur imagined them all jogging together through the dreary countryside, heels thudding against the frozen ground and breath clouding the air around them, with the hesitant fingers of the winter sun just touching the horizon. In his mind, everything seemed very grey: the sky, the earth in the grips of frost, the standard military athletic uniforms the pilots wore, but he suspected that this was merely due to the fact that the few newsreels he had ever watched were of course cast in the foreign black-and-white world of film. Maybe one day Alfred would tell him what the morning landscapes were really like, if there was color, or if he ever thought to look.

Alfred did say that there were more drills until lunchtime, either physical or aerodynamic, depending. Arthur imagined that the sun climbed to the center of the sky and painted the dull green of the landscape into his image; in the spring there would be buttercups nodding their golden heads with the breeze, clearer skies, fresh grass, but winter and war together rendered the palette of the English countryside lifeless, almost hollow. Whenever Arthur went outside to smoke he was met with the carved-out sight of muddy fields, occasionally broken by patches of sickly grass or clumps of trees, and he assumed the situation to be the same half of a mile over at Alfred's base, only noisier, he supposed, the air constantly upset with voices and the rushing of engines.

After lunch, the pilots devoted themselves to their planes. Alfred talked about this part of the day the most. He said that he loved to work with his hands, and Arthur had noticed that his palms were wide and callused; though the hospital soap usually left the skin raw and pink, once they had dried they proved to be very brown, and he wondered if Alfred had worked much outdoors before the war had stolen him away.

Once the pilots were covered in soot and motor oil, they were sent off to the showers. Alfred explained that he always ran there so that he could be first in and then first out, but even so he sometimes had to wait, and this generally caused him a great deal of anxiety. However, as soon as his hair was clean and he smelled of soap rather than exhaust, he hurried over to the hospital to theoretically spend his hour of free time with Matthew. Of course, this interval was more often than not spent with Arthur, seeing as his brother was asleep most of the day, and as Alfred was still trying to win his way into Arthur's good graces, after all. Really, the boy was nothing if not persistent, and Arthur was nothing if not stubborn. They were pushing and pulling and yet, Arthur was beginning to realize, contrary to his expectations, in fact contrary to logic itself,_ something_ was coming from it.

Arthur wasn't sure if he would go so far as to call Alfred a friend, but when Matthew was well enough to be questioned on his escape from enemy territory and Alfred waltzed into the infirmary to find his younger brother surrounded by a handful of reporters and men that must have looked very sinister to him, dressed as they were in dark suits and white medical coats and brandishing clipboards and serious expressions, Arthur swallowed to see anger and fear and perhaps even betrayal cross his face.

Without stopping to wash his hands, Alfred burst through the group of investigators and doctors, scattering them from Matthew's bedside with a few shouts and swings of his arms. Arthur hissed in frustration and leapt down from his stool, throwing his clipboard to the countertop, but Elizaveta was the first at Alfred's side and it took only the slightest touch of her hand on his shoulder to get him to step back.

"What the hell is going on?" he was hissing when Arthur arrived, having finished apologizing to the investigators. "He's still hurt! Who do they think they are, turning him into a headline?" he snorted, casting a dark look at the men who were regrouping beside Matthew's bed. "I won't let them."

Elizaveta opened her mouth before Arthur cut her off with a bark of a laugh.

"I don't think you have a say in the matter, Alfred."

Alfred turned on him with a little cry of indignation, and Arthur was surprised to see him look so upset; obnoxious or not, he was usually such a good-natured young man that it was difficult to believe him capable of such outrage. Arthur found his own irritation sobered and gave a little shake of his head, reaching out to grip Alfred's shoulder.

"Look, boy," he sighed, "your brother said he was up for an interview, so I let them in. It was bound to happen at some point," he cast a glance back behind his shoulder. "It's not every day that a simple pilot makes a miraculous escape from what seemed to be certain doom."

Alfred shrugged Arthur away with a little curl of his lower lip, but he released his balled fists and glanced back contritely a moment later.

"But even I don't know what happened yet," he said quietly, sounding somewhat like an injured child, "and I'm his big brother."

Arthur shrugged. "Nobody does," he murmured. "And I won't say I'm not curious myself."

Alfred nodded distractedly, straightening his glasses, and Arthur saw that he had refocused on Matthew and the surrounding men, his brow knitting and casting a shadow over his eyes. They were talking in low voices and there was no possibility of overhearing their conversation; though the reporters and doctors exchanged plenty of furtive looks, one could hardly construct Matthew's story on flickering glances and subtle motions alone. Arthur sighed reluctantly and felt at his breast pocket for his package of cigarettes. It was nearly time for a break anyways.

He ushered a confused Alfred through the halls of the hospital, ignoring his questions and protests until they were outside under the balcony, relatively secure against the cold and the listless December drizzle. Even so, Arthur hugged his medical coat around himself, extracting the package of cigarettes and a lighter. Alfred finally closed his mouth, momentarily distracted by the sight.

"And just where'd you get those from?"

Arthur smirked as he balanced a cigarette between his lips. "Let's say I know a guy. And don't end your sentences with a preposition, Alfred, it's harsh on the ears," he shot him a glance as he lit up. "Well, do you want one or not?"

Alfred accepted with a mutter of thanks and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest and inhaling deeply. He was still for a moment before he exhaled, the thick stream of smoke mingling with the soft rain, and coughed faintly, though he tried to hide this by turning his face away. Arthur raised an amused eyebrow and Alfred glared, but the expression was somewhat ruined by his watering eyes.

"It's been a while since I've had any real smokes, okay?" he said, rather hoarsely. "What the hell is this about, anyways?"

Arthur shrugged and exhaled smoothly, watching the smoke dissolve into the air. "I'm distracting you."

Alfred's glare deepened. "He's my baby brother."

"I'm well aware."

They smoked quietly together for another few minutes, watching the rain fall.

"Hey, doc."

Arthur glanced lazily up in response, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth. It surprised him to realize that he was vaguely relieved to see a smile toying with the edges of Alfred's lips.

"So," Alfred raised an eyebrow, "does this mean you've changed your mind about me?"

Arthur chuckled, balancing his cigarette between his fingers.

"Oh dear, let's not get ahead of ourselves, eh?" he watched a clump of embers fall, still burning, to the wet ground. "I can hardly have you wreaking havoc in my infirmary just because you absolutely _must _be the first to hear everything, can I? Besides, it was nearly time for my break, anyways," he gestured around them, letting a few drops of rain spatter his outstretched palm. "You see, this merely serves to kill two birds with one stone."

Alfred laughed and took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling through his smile.

"Sure thing," he chuckled, then there was another pause, during which he suddenly focused on his toes. "Sorry," he managed eventually, "for disrupting, I mean."

Arthur blinked, unconsciously letting a good portion of his cigarette fall to the ground. Alfred was looking away, the frames of his glasses spattered with rain, expression unintelligible. Arthur sighed.

"I suppose that, given the circumstances, the offense was forgivable. However," he glanced up warningly. "Never do it again."

Alfred was still turned away, but amusement turned up one edge of his mouth.

"Sure. Thanks."

Arthur nodded crisply. "You're quite welcome."

They were silent for another, longer interval, listening to the murmurs of the hospital and the hush of the rain against the roof of the balcony. Alfred was remarkably still, shifting only occasionally to adjust his familiar bomber jacket over his shoulders or wipe the rain from his glasses with the edge of his shirt. Arthur was a little cold and his hair was damp, but the air smelled fresh and he felt that if he could gaze out over the edge of the railing long enough he might sink into the soft grey that was the air and the landscape; there was no sun, only clouds and fog and rain, without shape or color.

"Say, Alfred," said Arthur quietly, "have you ever seen England in the spring?"

Alfred glanced up at him, blinking. His hair was dulled and stuck to his forehead, but behind the rain-smattered frames of his glasses his eyes were thin blue glass. He shook his head, no, he hadn't.

"You ought to," murmured Arthur, "more colors."

Alfred was quiet for a long moment.

"I like green," he said finally. "Lively."

Arthur gave him a long look, wondering if he had truly meant to imply so much with so little or if it was nothing but an accident born of his wandering tongue.

"I suppose it is," he said finally, turning back to the sky, dropping his cigarette butt and pressing it into the concrete with the toe of his shoe. "How ironic."

* * *

><p>Arthur promised that he would wait to get Matthew's full story himself until Alfred could be there, too, and so the next day the two of them and Elizaveta gathered around the bed to hear the story of the escape before the media got their chance to mangle it with falsified heroism and forced miracles. Matthew was still feeling a little tired from the previous day's ordeal, but he was very much awake, propped up comfortably on the pillows with a book on his lap, which he left open even as he began his story.<p>

He had been drafted long before Alfred despite his age, seeing as the United States had only joined the war several years ago and his elder brother had still been in school at the time. Matthew had been in the RCAF for nearly as long as he had been in the army itself, he explained, and had lived through countless perilous missions only to be shot down in an ambush during a routine patrol over Italy. He reckoned that he had scarcely missed the ocean, instead crashing into the enemy territory towards the North. He blacked out and wasn't sure how long he was unconscious, only that he woke covered in blood and burns, with his leg twisted beneath him and his arm bent at an odd angle. When Alfred looked away, Matthew sighed and tried to tell him that he hadn't felt pain so much as nothing at all, that for days he could do and feel nothing but the desperate need to find someone, anyone. He only began to hurt once he was sure he was safe, he promised, but this didn't seem to help and Arthur felt his heart stutter with sympathy when Alfred merely nodded, his mouth a thin line.

Matthew tried to drag himself southwards to where he knew the Allied troops would be advancing up the boot of the continent, but he had lost all sense of direction and had apparently nearly reached the French border before he was discovered by some stray members of the Italian Resistance. He had lost nearly thirty pounds and could scarcely eat when they found him, and it was their hands that had clumsily bandaged his head and wrapped the makeshift linen sling around his neck, cradled his neck to allow him to drink, and begun to organize a way to get him safely back to England.

Seeing Alfred's distress upon hearing this, Matthew tried to lighten the subject and began to describe the intriguing character of the leader of the division of the Resistance that had stumbled upon him, a young man from Sicily who loathed being in the northern country and loudly voiced this opinion at any given opportunity. Matthew had thought that he was only capable of shouting and railing in thick Italian, in addition to occasionally muttering to himself in what sounded like Spanish, but when his men were questioned about him they only had words of admiration and loyalty to offer, spoken in broken English and accompanied by gentle smiles. Vargas, they explained, was one of the most passionate men they had ever encountered, though he would never admit to such a thing, and he deserved their allegiance more than anyone they could imagine. When they were free, they said, he would be a hero.

The night before Matthew would be returned to the Allies and sent back to England to recover, Vargas had come into his tent to irritably wish him good luck.

"My men say you're going to be a hero," he spat. He wasn't a tall man but there was a ferocious gleam in his eyes that lent him a certain presence.

"They say the same about you, sir," Matthew had managed, though at that point in his recovery he could scarcely lift his head from the pillow. Vargas scoffed at him.

"Please. Just call me Lovino," he muttered, "your armies are saving our sorry asses anyways."

Matthew had been quiet for a moment.

"And you're saving mine," he finally wheezed, "so we're even."

When Arthur laughed aloud upon hearing this, Matthew blushed and said that he couldn't help but to point out the truth. Lovino had eyed him for another long moment, then scoffed again and turned to leave the tent. However, he stopped at the door and glanced back over his shoulder, glaring, to spit out a lone _grazie _before he was gone. The next day, Matthew was transferred into Allied hands, and a few weeks later he was arriving in Arthur's hospital, looking worse than he really was because the journey had taken a severe toll on his condition. And that, Matthew said, leaning his head back into the pillow with a little sigh, was all there really was to tell.

They were all quiet for a moment, then Elizaveta smiled and kissed Matthew on the forehead. Arthur gripped his shoulder and said he was a very brave young man. Alfred worried his lower lip and said he was sorry. When asked why, he shrugged and looked at his feet, fiddling with his glasses.

"Just sorry," he said quietly. "You were real brave, Matt. A hero, honest."

Matthew smiled thinly, worriedly. "Well, I don't know about that."

Arthur glanced between the two brothers, at Alfred still biting his lip and wringing his hands, at Matthew propped up against his wall of pillows, watching him concernedly.

"Bah," he finally growled. "The both of you, nothing but sentimentality and humility, making me sick. The point is, Matthew, you're alive," he glanced very sharply at Alfred. "You're alive, that's all that matters."

Matthew smiled and Alfred nodded.

"All thanks to you, doc," he said with half a grin, but he still seemed subdued, almost guilty, and Arthur wasn't feeling terribly flattered by the gratitude.

* * *

><p>The next day, Alfred surprised Arthur when he was fiddling with his radio. Most of the patients were asleep and Elizaveta was out, so he had pulled the old thing from its hiding place and begun to fiddle with the dials, letting the static fill the infirmary. He wasn't sure what he was hoping to hear, or why he still cared about that old fool anyways, seeing as he had caused Arthur nothing but trouble, but nonetheless he was accustomed to drawing the radio out whenever he could and sitting for as long as he could hoping to get a glimpse of news, of the elusive snippets of that voice which could sometimes be caught with enough careful attention. In fact, Arthur had just gotten a tantalizing hint of something more than static when Alfred burst in and immediately demanded to know why Arthur had nearly fallen off his stool in fright and shoved something bulky haphazardly into the nearest medicine cabinet.<p>

"No reason," said Arthur immediately, straightening his medical coat. "I don't know what you're even talking about. Go wash your hands."

Alfred raised an eyebrow at him, straightening his glasses, and Arthur fretted that the rush of his pulse would be audible in the silence that suddenly filled the room. Eventually, however, Alfred merely shrugged, muttered something about never understanding Englishmen, and went obediently to the sink, humming as he switched on the faucet. Arthur turned to breathe again, running a hand through his hair in relief before he sought out his trusty clipboard and reestablished himself atop his stool with his pen in hand.

He had heard the _allo, allo? _crackle over the receiver, and that would be enough for at least another week. Once his heartbeat had calmed he was able to focus on his paperwork in silence broken only by the murmur of his pen against the page, the soft sounds of his patients breathing, and perhaps the occasional muffled chatter of footsteps and voices from the hall. In fact, at least ten minutes passed before he remembered that Alfred was actually still in the room, and another few minutes slipped by before he registered how strange this was in itself and glanced up to see the boy sitting with his elbows rested on Matthew's mattress, watching his brother sleep, expression disguised because he was supporting both cheeks on his palms.

He seemed to notice Arthur's fascination and glanced up, quirking a brow questioningly.

"What's up, doc?"

To his surprise, Arthur felt heat blossom against his collar; he glared down at his paperwork, hissing nothing, nothing, nothing at all, do carry on with whatever it was that you were doing, dear boy. He refused to look up again but felt Alfred's gaze linger curiously on him for a moment before he turned back to his sleeping brother and let the incomplete silence drift back into place.

Arthur's earlier observation that sadness and uncertainty fitted Alfred like a poorly-tailored suit, pinching at his face like a constraining seam might, was only being reaffirmed. How irritating, how extremely irritating indeed, he thought, almost resentfully. Melancholy was an illness, he decided, stealing a brief glance up again and frowning to see the lines that turned Alfred's mouth down at the corners, and what sort of doctor was he if he didn't at least make an attempt to cure it?

* * *

><p>The next day, when Alfred made his entrance at the usual time, though still seeming irritatingly subdued and unhappy, Arthur watched him wash his hands with a concerned expression. For a while, Alfred simply kept scrubbing, only occasionally glancing up questioningly at his observer, but eventually he let out a small hiss, shut off the water completely, and asked Arthur what he was doing wrong.<p>

"Nothing, nothing at all," muttered Arthur distractedly, giving a little chuckle and leaning forwards slightly, squinting, one hand balanced at his chin as if he were lost deep in thought. Alfred seemed to lean back to accommodate the distance, water dripping from his fingers onto the countertop.

"…doc?"

"Alfred, have you been feeling alright?"

Alfred blinked, reaching for a towel and beginning to dry his hands without breaking away from Arthur's gaze, though he took another step backwards.

"I…yeah, of course. Why?"

Arthur frowned, reached out, and brusquely took his chin in one hand, ignoring his surprised intake of breath and turning his face upwards so that he could get what must have seemed to be a thorough look at the underside of his jaw. Alfred swallowed visibly, gazing down at Arthur from beneath the frames of his glasses, eyes still wider than usual in alarm, and if Arthur hadn't been feigning seriousness he would have laughed aloud to see the motion ripple through his entire throat.

"Curious…" he muttered, cryptically of course, and Alfred finally batted his hand away, taking yet another step backwards and straightening his glasses, looking quite unsettled and indignant and confused as he touched his fingers to his jaw as if to feel for some kind of abnormality.

"What the hell was that about?" his hand still lingered at his throat, and Arthur momentarily wondered if that was a blush he saw across his cheeks before he remembered that of course that couldn't be true. "Am I sick or something?"

Arthur sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, tapping his foot against the floor.

"To be honest, I'm not quite sure yet, old boy," he said after allowing the silence to last a moment longer. "I'd like to get a chance to examine you, however."

Alfred slowly dropped his hand from his jaw and tucked it into his pocket, brow knitting.

"Do you think it's…bad?"

Arthur shrugged. "We'll have to see. Have you got a minute?"

"Of…of course."

Alfred followed him into the examination room so obediently, dropping his eyes and biting his lower lip and not making a sound, that Arthur almost felt guilty for tricking him. But of course, the moment he had settled onto the table, immediately setting the fresh wax paper to crackling and eventually ripping it nearly all the way down the middle, Arthur was smacking him upside the back of the head and telling him not to be so gullible, really, he had expected better. Alfred only seemed confused until Arthur exasperatedly explained that of course he wasn't sick, in fact he was just about the most irritatingly healthy creature on this green Earth and would unfortunately live a long and doubtlessly disruptive life, at which point the poor fool only grew more confused, which was perhaps a not unreasonable reaction, all things considered.

"What the hell is this about then, anyways?" he cried, leaning forwards and gripping the examination table with both hands. "Damn, you really gave me a fright, you know?"

Arthur rolled his eyes at the dramatics and balanced his pen between his lips, levering it up and down with his teeth as he waited for Alfred to quiet.

"I merely have some issues to set straight," he said coolly once Alfred had finished, though he was still flushed an angry shade of pink and glaring absolute daggers at him. "I'm afraid I cannot tolerate your recent behavioral aberrations."

Alfred blinked, tilting his head to one side.

"Behavioral what-nows?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You've been acting strangely and I don't like it," he took the pen from his mouth and tapped it idly against the back of his hand. "In fact, as of late I've been finding you more irritating than ever." `

Alfred was silent for a long moment, furrowing his brow, before he sat back and met Arthur's gaze almost warily, straightening his glasses for the umpteenth time.

"I don't understand," he finally said, voice sounding almost small. "I've been pretty much totally quiet for the last couple days. How could even _you _possibly find that annoying?"

Arthur frowned, stopping his rhythm with the pen. "You're not being yourself and it irks me."

Alfred stared at him disbelievingly for a moment, and then brought his hand to his temple with a shallow chuckle.

"What is this, a surprise self-esteem seminar?"

Arthur cast him an unimpressed glare.

"Would you really expect such a thing from me?"

Alfred met his gaze with a crooked smirk. "Not up until now."

Arthur snorted, almost appreciatively. "Don't be ridiculous. This is nothing of the sort," he tucked his pen into the breast pocket of his medical coat, taking another step forwards and linking his arms together behind his back. "It's merely that you're wrong and I therefore have to correct you."

"Wrong?" Alfred wrinkled his nose. "About what?"

"You've blamed it on yourself."

"I've…" Alfred trailed off, tilting his head to the side curiously. "You're not making any sense, doc."

Arthur sighed, touching his hand to his temple. "I'm referring to Matthew. Through whatever inane process your mind devised, you have somehow arrived at blaming yourself for what he has been forced to endure. Of whether it's because you are the older sibling, or merely because you seem to be laboring under some sort of ridiculous delusion of heroism, I'm not entirely sure," he paused for effect, quirking a brow, "however, I _am_ very sure indeed that you have been acting like some sort of moody teenager, moping about around here and feeling sorry for yourself and generally dampening the atmosphere of a _hospital _- which is, I might add, already a considerably dreary place to be - and can assure you that I will not stand for it any longer, not in the least. Have I made myself clear?"

Alfred stared for a moment, jaw hanging slightly ajar, before he exploded into anger.

"Of all the…" he didn't seem quite capable of compiling complete sentences, more of simply stringing together a few phrases and adding little outbursts of exasperation at the end of each: there was_ the nerve!_ embellished with a huff, _I can't believe! _followed by something that sounded close to a growl, next _what exactly gives you the right…_then a few inaudible mutterings, then some biting at his lower lip, then he finally looked up again, eyes fierce, and finished the spectacle with _you and that ego of yours!_

Arthur tried to hide his amusement behind a shrug of his shoulders.

"I still haven't heard a denial."

Alfred gaped a moment longer before the anger seemed to drain out of him and he flopped back on the examination table with a sigh, ripping the wax paper lengthwise in the process as he proclaimed that Arthur didn't know him and therefore couldn't possibly hope to make such an assumption. Arthur shrugged again and crossed one leg over the other, tilting his head back to gaze upwards nonchalantly, as if his opinion were entirely objective.

"Look, Alfred," he began, letting a sigh send his words floating to the ceiling. "Perhaps I don't know you exactly like the back of my hand, but unfortunately I am fairly well-acquainted with the human psyche and therefore very much capable of recognizing certain…patterns, yes, that seems to be the appropriate word…of thought and emotion," he made an indifferent gesture with his hand. "It's all merely part of the medical degree, you know."

Alfred surveyed him warily; he was almost completely stretched out across the examination table, his legs dangling off the ends almost from the shins, bomber jacket pillowing his back and shoulders, hair fanning out in a soft spray of gold around his head.

"You're an elder sibling," Arthur continued, unfazed by the distrustful glitter in Alfred's eyes, "equipped with strong protective instincts. You feel guilt because of what happened to your younger brother. I suppose because you were neither able to stop it nor shelter him from it. Am I wrong?"

Alfred turned so that his cheek pressed against the cheap upholstery of the examination table; he stared fixedly at the wall, the wax paper crackling frantically as he rearranged his legs, crossing them together at the ankles and drawing his knees upwards slightly towards his chest almost like a child.

"Guess not," he finally mumbled. Arthur smirked at the back of his head.

"Well then, you're an idiot," he proclaimed evenly, and Alfred snapped upright with a little cry of outrage, finally tearing the wax paper completely in two. He immediately started to protest, of course, but Arthur shut his eyes and held up his hand and soon he was reduced to muffled fuming.

"Really, Alfred, what could you have done?" Arthur tilted his head to the side almost bemusedly, retrieving his pen from his pocket and beginning to tap it against the back of his hand again. "Firstly, you two don't even belong to the same class of pilot. Secondly, Matthew's original base was miles from here. Thirdly, news didn't get out until weeks after he had gone down. He was essentially considered a lost cause. But in the end he survived, and now he'll be a hero. How could you have changed anything?"

They were quiet for a long moment, Alfred gripping the edge of the medical table and swinging his legs back and forth, apparently watching the thin light of the examination room glint off the surface of his finely polished boots.

"Doesn't matter," he finally muttered, still fixated on his feet. "He's my baby brother."

Arthur blinked, then sighed, pressing the end of his pen against his forehead both exasperatedly and, despite himself, somewhat fondly.

"Stubborn yank," he groaned, "acting like you've never seen a war before."

Alfred glanced up at him dubiously, but there might have been a trace of amusement in his expression.

"Neither have you, doc."

"Shut it," Arthur levered himself from the stool to award Alfred a brisk swat upside the head, allowing himself the slightest of smiles before he sobered, crossing his arms over his chest. "Look, Alfred, all I want is that you stop moping around my hospital. As I said before, it's dreary enough without your contribution, so chin up, eh? It's not like you to be so…_subdued,_" he grimaced, "so enough already. Let's stop throwing around the blame and just go with all's well that ends well, yeah? And if you decide you need vengeance," he shrugged, turning towards the door. "Well, the next mission can't be too far off."

Alfred watched him quietly for a moment, hand still balanced at the back of his neck, nursing the spot where Arthur had slapped him, before that crooked old grin returned and he was bounding upwards from the examination table, jarring his glasses and nearly sending them tumbling from the brink of his nose.

"Alright, doc," he beamed. "It's a deal."

He offered his hand and Arthur grudgingly took it, with the full intention of giving a brief, firm shake, something entirely appropriate for an exchange between gentlemen. Alfred's plans, however, seemed to include dislocating Arthur's shoulder, and after no more than a few moments of this Arthur was slapping him away with a hiss of exasperation, complaining that his fingers ached even though they were really only rather pleasantly warm from the touch of his palm.

"Gee, sorry, doc," Alfred smirked as they left the examination room, tucking his hands jauntily into his pockets as Arthur locked the door. "Thought enthusiasm was what you wanted."

Arthur glared. "Sod off," he turned, brushing past Alfred back to where his trusty medical cabinets and clipboard would be awaiting him. "And for heaven's sake, by now you can just call me Arthur," he knew the boy was in pursuit by the sound of his footsteps. "Really, as if you've ever cared for formality."

When Arthur was met with complete silence, he turned and was dismayed to see Alfred's mouth hanging slightly ajar and his eyes alive with a light that could be nothing but troublesome.

"Christ, what is it now?"

Alfred at least had the decency to close his mouth.

"You're going to let me call you Arthur?"

Arthur nodded slowly, quirking a brow.

"_Do _alert the masses."

When Alfred merely commenced to moon at him like an idiot, Arthur snapped the door of the nearest medical cabinet shut and turned sharply around, jamming his hands on his hips with the tails of his medical coat cracking behind him.

"Pray tell, my dear Alfred, what is it that is so terribly funny about this situation?"

Alfred feigned innocence, gazing up at the ceiling and giving a little shrug.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," he said slowly, drawing out each syllable and pursing his lips, "it's just that it's working faster than I thought."

Arthur blinked. "What?"

Alfred blew out his breath. "Thought you'd be harder to crack."

"Excuse me?"

He was obviously fighting down a grin, and before Arthur was able to realize exactly what he had meant, Alfred was waving goodbye to a half-awake Matthew and sauntering towards the door, practically singing _till tomorrow, Artie, _as he only narrowly missed a rather sharp collision with the clipboard that was aimed at his back.

* * *

><p><strong>AN -<strong> You guys. What are you _doing_. What. I never _dreamed _this fic would be so popular already, and I just…I can never thank you _enough. _I love writing this story and I am _so grateful _to everyone who has read, reviewed, alerted, and favorited. You are all wonderful, and I do not deserve a single one of you.

(BTW, I make sure to reply to every reviewer at least once during a multi-chap fic; unfortunately, I never seem to have enough time for everyone, but never doubt my gratitude! Also, another enormous **thank you **to all the anons - it's so sad that I can't message you, especially when you're so kind to me. I love you all, sob.)

**YET another shout-out** to Trumpet-Geek, who helped me figure out the Italian Resistance plotline and is TOTALLY WORTHY of the caps lock key.

(Speaking of, she also reminded me that pilots needed to have perfect vision, so technically Alfred couldn't wear glasses. However, I really cannot imagine him without Texas, so…if you guys are willing to overlook this error, I'm willing to overlook this error. Deal? XD)

Again,** thank you _so much _for reading.** I'll have the next chapter up in a week. ^^

Until then!


	3. Chapter 3

Matthew had improved to the point where he was awake for a considerable portion of the day, and Arthur liked the boy so much that he allowed him access to his private library, a considerable honor seeing as usually not even Elizaveta was permitted to so much as run her finger across the crumbling spines of the lovely old books. But Matthew was quiet, subdued, courteous; the ideal young man in Arthur's opinion, and soon enough Dickens, Hardy, Chaucer, Austen, and all three Brontës at the same time were strewn across his hospital bed. There was _Great Expectations _at his side, _Jude the Obscure _beneath the crook of his knee, _Canterbury Tales _open across his stomach, _Emma _nestled against his shin, and _Wuthering Heights _held so close to his face that the tip of his nose brushed the bend of the page.

Of course, every novel would be folded up and placed carefully atop the ever-present stack of volumes at his bedside table whenever Alfred made his daily pilgrimage to the infirmary. Matthew no longer fell asleep during even the longest of his brother's monologues, and for the most part the two of them chattered on amiably about cheerful things - their childhoods, or their school days, or the new flight maneuvers Alfred had learned, or how Matthew hadn't really felt the pain of his burns for days - essentially, anything that didn't involve the war was fair game for conversation. There had been more whispers than ever involving upcoming missions and looming danger and the advancement of the Axis Powers, the rumors skulking through the hallways of the hospital and the bunk beds of the airbase like unwanted shadows, only all the more dangerous if acknowledged, and so the subject was generally avoided in favor of mindless small talk.

In fact, Alfred was usually so occupied with his brother that he rarely had the time to pester Arthur anymore. He saluted him whenever he entered, though probably just to be facetious, and gladly included him in the conversation whenever he had the time to hover at Matthew's beside, but this was seldom the case and Arthur told himself he was relieved. Nobody distracted him from his paperwork, he was able to bring out his radio in peace, and there was nobody he needed to scold or order to sit up straight like a grown man or to hush already, if they pleased. He didn't have to deal with correcting sudden bursts of melancholy, the medicines stayed organized in their cabinets, and the patients were left in peace. He himself was able to finish nearly all his work every day. And of course he was very glad of this.

Alfred talked as enthusiastically as ever, and sometimes a nurse would flutter by to shush him and warn him against waking the other patients. Despite himself, Arthur realized that he found this to be rather irritating. Having grown accustomed to overhearing Alfred's anecdotes, he began to feel almost deprived of vital information without them, and was resentful almost as if some sort of human right had been snatched away from him. For example, he hadn't yet heard why Alfred and Matthew were separated at such a young age, nor why the elder grew up in the United States and the younger in Canada, due to the fact that Alfred had been told to lower his voice just as he and Matthew were reflecting on that particular chain of events. And no matter how badly he wanted to know (how much he _deserved_ to know, he would argue), Arthur couldn't have simply turned from his work and ordered the fool to speak up, could he?

Of course he couldn't. He hadn't forgotten his reputation, not even if he sometimes couldn't help but take note of the empty space around him, of the quietness of the hospital, the frail quality to the noise that did exist, the breathing, the coughing, the hushed talk, the rustle of papers and medical coats, the occasional click of high heels against the tile floor. It was a brittle structure of sound, without a distinct character, and Arthur wondered why he hadn't realized how much was indeed lacking before. For one thing, there was no color; the noise felt pale, sickly, and though he supposed it fit the environment, he was hardly fond of it. Indeed, he had once reasoned with himself, Alfred's voice hurt his ears, but it was somewhat golden at least, but then again, what a silly thing to think. He had admonished himself when the idea occurred to him and he didn't even like to remember that he had allowed such a thing to cross his mind. Really, he thought that Alfred was too bright, or far too bright for the grey palette of England, certainly.

However, Alfred seemed bent on proving all of Arthur's opinions and expectations of him to be quite the contrary, whether he meant to do so or not. In late December, Matthew underwent a particularly long and difficult examination, and when Alfred arrived that afternoon he found his younger brother fast asleep with _A Tale of Two Cities _cradled in his lap. Arthur fully expected Alfred to immediately make himself the annoyance that the entire hospital had come to know and begrudgingly permit, but instead he merely washed his hands as per usual, sat down at his familiar chair, lifted the book from the crook of Matthew's legs with a soft smile, closed it and tucked it away atop the bedside table, and proceeded to cradle his head in his folded arms and fall fast asleep stretched halfway across the mattress.

At first, Arthur was so incredulous that he didn't dare venture over to investigate, not when he had expected obnoxious conversation that was forced on anyone nearby regardless of their willingness to participate, the constant squeaking of the chair as Alfred spun himself around again and again, the occasional explosion of his laughter, distracting and earsplitting and bright, and instead was faced with no sound but the soft come and go of Alfred's breathing as he slept. However, once he had recovered his wits and finished what he deemed to be a good portion of his paperwork, he crept over, clipboard clutched to his chest, and peered almost warily down at Alfred as if he might spring from sleep and try to strike up a mindless conversation at any moment.

But he was nearly motionless except for the movement of his breath, shifting in time with the slope of his shoulders and the gentle bobbing of his cowlick, which stood up persistently from where the rest of his bangs spread out against the crook of his arms in a spray of gold. His glasses were jarred lopsidedly upwards from where his cheek pressed against the mattress; they caught the wan hospital light and Arthur realized that he looked tired, exhaustion smudging below his eyes and catching in the thin lines on his forehead. Even so, he seemed peaceful, even happy, the corners of his mouth sloping slightly upwards, lips parted. Arthur decided that he seemed more real and surreal at the exact same moment, like a painting or a photograph but alive and breathing, then scolded himself for allowing another such thought to cross his mind, almost blushing but managing to stop himself.

Instead he reached down and shook Alfred's shoulder gently, smirking when he groaned, stretched his arms out, bones cracking, and finally blinked up at Arthur reproachfully.

"What now?" he mumbled, trying to straighten his glasses but really more of fumbling over the frames. "This can't be breaking the rules…"

Arthur chuckled. "It's not," he admitted, "but you shouldn't be sleeping at this hour of the day. If you nap too long, you won't get a wink at night. Also, that position can't be good for your back."

Alfred sighed heavily and mumbled that he wasn't getting any winks no matter when or where he slept, but seemed to immediately regret his words when Arthur leaned forwards suspiciously, quirking a brow, and asked that he please elaborate, if it wouldn't be too much trouble.

It was nothing, Alfred muttered, staring fixedly at the mattress, just forget he said anything.

Arthur was of course not to be so easily deterred, and when Alfred let out an enormous yawn halfway through the second interrogation, he gripped him by the collar and insisted upon knowing what could possibly be depriving him of so much sleep that he couldn't even follow a simple conversation. Alfred avoided Arthur's gaze and remarked that he sure couldn't see any conversation, just an interview, for which he received a smack upside the back of the head and another demand for honesty.

"Look, I can't tell you, alright?" he said finally, gazing determinedly away. "I could get in trouble."

Arthur held onto his collar for a moment more, then sighed and let him drop back into his chair, running a hand through his hair and gazing down sharply over the bridge of his nose.

"So is she pretty, at least?"

Alfred blinked. "Sorry?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "The _girl_, Alfred. I hope she's not just some tramp you picked up off the street."

Alfred blinked again. "The…" He straightened his glasses for the umpteenth time, then seemed to understand and threw his head back with a laugh that caused every nurse to both jump out of their high heels and smile fondly at the same moment. Arthur, however, merely raised an eyebrow.

"No, no, you've got it all wrong, man!" Alfred was giggling, flapping his hand though the air. "Er, well, not exactly, but it sure ain't me who's got the problem!" he was seized by another fit of amusement, bending over and wiping a tear from his eye. "Me, a girl…oh man, that's rich…"

Arthur didn't see what was so funny about the whole scenario, but his curiosity had been thoroughly provoked. When he asked Alfred who did have the problem and how this was at all related to his sleep deprivation, the boy suddenly sobered, coming upright and straightening his glasses, and quietly asked Arthur how much he could be trusted, to which Arthur, in his surprise, replied that he merely wanted to know and wouldn't tattle on an idiotic boy because it wouldn't be worth the trouble.

Alfred chuckled and said if that was the case, he could really use some help.

* * *

><p>Alfred truly never failed to defy Arthur's expectations. Of all the scenarios he could have possibly imagined, he would never have thought that he would be receiving a tour of the neighboring air base, and yet there he was, being haphazardly led through the veritable labyrinth of hallways and utility rooms, darting around clump upon clump of smoking and guffawing men, dodging the occasional barking higher-up, sometimes stumbling over his own feet and feeling rather grateful that Alfred kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure he was following steadily behind, very grateful indeed despite the bemused grin the boy wore at the expense of Arthur's clumsiness. As the men eventually began to thin out and the hallways grew steadily quieter, Arthur deduced that they had transitioned onto the residential floors, which were nearly silent because most of the pilots were still at dinner or smoking outside the mess hall. They ascended a flight of steps, Arthur sputtering at Alfred to slow down just a tick, then stopped at the first door of the next floor as Alfred fumbled in the pockets of his bomber jacket for the key to his room.<p>

"I still don't understand the meaning of this," Arthur wheezed, leaning one arm against the wall to gasp for breath and glaring when Alfred sniggered. The boy jiggled the key in the lock once, twice, and finally the door emitted a foreboding groan and cracked open. Alfred held up one finger for Arthur to wait a moment and leaned his head and one shoulder through the opening, still clinging onto the doorway as if he was wary of entering completely.

"Toris?" he whispered. "You in there, buddy?"

Arthur heard a muffled cough from inside and Alfred pulled back from the door to open it all the way, warning whoever was inside that he was about to turn on the lights so it would probably be a good idea to pull up the sheets or something. There was a low groan of affirmation, then Alfred fumbled around on the inner wall of the room for a few moments before he let out a cry of victory, having evidently found the switch, and leaned back again to usher Arthur inside.

Arthur shot him a wary look, but he simply grinned and gestured to the door again, tipping his jaunty brown military cap with a wink.

"Ladies first," he chirped, and Arthur rolled his eyes but entered nonetheless. The room was small, nothing more than a standard dormitory, with a sink, a bureau, a small window, and a bunk bed against the far wall. A few shirts were strewn across the floor and a tattered edition of a porn magazinewas hanging open from the railing of the bed, but Arthur was most interested by the half-asleep young man bundled into the bottom bunk, the hollow rattle of his breathing already betraying the fact that he was far from being in top fighting condition.

He turned questioningly to Alfred, who had followed him into the room and clicked the door softly shut behind them.

"This is Toris," Alfred said sheepishly, hands tucked in his pockets. "He's my roommate and he's not doing so hot. I can't let myself get sick, so I've been trying to sleep in the hallways, but it hasn't been working," he chuckled, "which is why I'm so tired. You see, we can't tell anyone around here because we think he caught it from a girl he met in the city and he'd get busted real hard, so…" he glanced nervously down at Arthur, trying to smile easily, though he really more of grimaced. "With your being a doctor and all, I was kinda hoping that maybe you'd, uh…give him a looksie?"

Arthur was quiet for a moment, then heaved a very long sigh and went over to the bed where Toris was curled into several blankets, his skin pale and clammy although his cheeks were flushed and his bangs clung to his forehead with sweat. Arthur grudgingly pressed the flat of his palm against his temple, raising an eyebrow at the heat beneath his skin and the fitful rush of his pulse, and turned back to face a fidgeting Alfred with another sigh.

"Can you tell me any other symptoms?"

Alfred jumped, his face brightening, and immediately rattled off an impressive list. Arthur nodded thoughtfully at several points, reached down to press his fingertips against the sides of Toris' neck once or twice, sighed a few more times, and eventually held up his hand for Alfred to stop, convinced of his diagnosis.

"Well, you were wise to stay out of here," he told him, "your friend has a rather acute case of mononucleosis. It's nothing terribly dangerous, just persistent, and quite contagious. It's good that you came to me; the disease shouldn't be allowed to last very long."

Alfred blinked down at him, chewing on the nail of his index finger.

"Mononucle-whatsis?"

"The kissing disease, Alfred," Arthur snapped with a roll of his eyes. "The biggest symptom is fatigue, then a sore throat, fever, and swollen lymph glands, among others," he glanced back at Toris, "all of which this poor bloke exhibits."

Alfred frowned. "So can you fix him?"

Arthur cast him an unimpressed look. "Of course I can," he said sharply, standing up from the bed and straightening the lapels of his medical coat as if to remind Alfred of his authority. "There is very little beyond my abilities, I think you'll find, let alone a simple case of mono. However," he paused, frowning, "I'm afraid I'll need medicine, and you won't be able to stay here until he's improved significantly. My apologies, but it really can't be helped," he sighed, pressing his palm to Toris' forehead once more. "He'll also need to stay hydrated, and he shouldn't get out of bed for a long time. That will have to be your responsibility. Do you think you'll have the time?"

Alfred nodded vigorously, and Arthur allowed himself the slightest of smiles.

"Well then, it's settled. I'm afraid there's really no exact treatment aside from rest and plenty of fluids, but if you'll stay with him for a tick, I'll go fetch some ibuprofen to lower his fever and ease some of the symptoms," he glanced at Alfred with a quirk of the brow. "Sound fair?"

Alfred blinked, then nodded still more enthusiastically and mumbled something that might have been a thank you. Arthur thumped him on the shoulder and left, managing to navigate his way to the nearest door and jogging the half-mile back to the hospital, though the freezing air cut through his clothes and chafed the skin of his cheeks and nose red and raw. The sky was grey and fragile, as if threatening to snap at any moment, and Arthur wondered when the first snow would fall. He took a moment to glance around himself and saw that the landscape was still leached dry and colorless, the bare branches of the trees turned silver by the wan light, the mud frozen underfoot. He reached the hospital, tucked several bottles of aspirin into his pockets, and hurried back to the base, using his authority to draw the attention of the pilots and gather directions back to Alfred's room. He was unsurprised to find that most of the men recognized the boy's name and smiled before they grew worried and asked if he was alright, to which Arthur drolly replied that Alfred was certainly as healthy as ever. The men boomed with laughter at his tone and gladly helped him to find the room again, each tipping their caps and leaving their farewells in the accents of New York, Boston, Birmingham, Dallas, San Francisco, and everything in between.

Arthur ran a hand exhaustedly through his hair and shook his head, but he was smiling despite himself when he knocked on the door. Americans would never fail to perplex him, but he certainly did appreciate a good puzzle. He got Toris to take some medicine with water and then he and Alfred sat themselves at his bedside, quietly watching him sleep.

"Oh," Alfred piped up suddenly, "to answer your question, Arthur," he spoke without looking at him. "She _was_ pretty. A Pole, if I recall correctly. Real nice blonde," he shrugged. "Guess the poor guy's just got some bad luck."

Arthur glanced at him dubiously.

"You had better watch your step, Alfred," he said eventually, "I wouldn't affiliate yourself with any of the girls around the city, not these days, at least."

Alfred met his gaze quite seriously, though amusement tugged at one of the corners of his mouth.

"I wouldn't worry about me on…" he paused, "uh, that particular front, Arthur," his smile was threatening to crumble into a grin. "I'm not one to go…affiliating myself, as you put it…with the ladies."

Arthur raised an eyebrow incredulously.

"What, because you're so pure and morally entitled?"

Alfred's smile faded slightly and a trace of color rose to his cheeks.

"Well…not exactly," he mumbled, glancing away and fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket, and Arthur swallowed, folding his hands together on his lap and dropping his gaze to his shoes.

"Oh," he said quietly. "Well, let's just say…me neither."

Alfred risked a glance at him.

"That so?"

Arthur nodded crisply, though he shifted uncomfortably, determinedly following the haphazard rise and fall of Toris' chest, and soon they had lapsed back into silence. It was not long, however, before Alfred was fidgeting in his chair and craning his neck to get a look at the clock that hung crookedly from the far wall. Eventually Arthur grew tired and snappishly asked him if he had somewhere to be, at which point he apologized and sheepishly confessed that he hadn't gotten the chance to shower yet.

Arthur wrinkled his nose. "For heaven's sake, then, boy, go!"

Alfred blinked at him incredulously. "Really? You're okay with staying here for a while?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"I _am _a doctor."

"Yeah, but I mean…" Alfred seemed to think better of himself and closed his mouth in favor of smiling broadly, the expression touching his eyes and lending a very becoming softness to his face. "Thank you, Arthur. I mean," he gestured around them, "for all this. It's pretty…big of you, I guess."

Arthur swallowed. "Shut the fuck up and go wash. It's a wonder you're not sick already from wallowing in your own filth."

Alfred snorted, shot him a crooked salute, snatched a towel from his bureau, and headed off down the hallway, shutting the door with his heel as he left. Arthur gazed at the door for a moment, leaning over the edge of his chair, before he turned back around, frowning faintly as Toris groaned in his sleep and rolled over onto his stomach. He sat there watching him for some minutes more, but eventually found himself scrutinizing the room, glaring at the stains on the ceiling, the nubby carpet, and finally getting up with a grumble of frustration and going to kick the wayward clothing into a pile in the corner of the room. Alfred wouldn't care and Arthur couldn't stand a disorganized space. He was tempted to fold the shirts, but they were stained with sweat and the idea seemed a little extreme even to him. Instead he got up and began to pace, examining every fault of cleanliness before he eventually made his way back to the bed and clambered up the ladder to get a look at the top bunk, where he presumed Alfred had slept before the mononucleosis had banished him to wandering the hallways.

He had to smirk at the image of an exhausted Alfred bumbling through the dormitories, clutching a pillow to his chest as he begged for a spare bunk. He had probably slept in the stairwell the past couple of days, and Arthur almost fondly imagined him dozing against the wall with his chin balanced on his chest, glasses slipping down from the bridge of his nose. It was good, he supposed as he hoisted himself onto the bed and began to straighten the disarranged sheets, that the fool had finally gotten around to asking for help, seeing as how frequently he seemed to be in want of it.

He flicked the old porno magazine from the bed railing to the floor with a little hiss of disgust, though he snorted when the pages fluttered open as it fell, revealing brief glimpses of breast and thigh and headlines in a language that certainly wasn't English. He deduced that it must have belonged to Toris and wasn't sure why he was relieved.

"Well," he chuckled to himself as he reached out to fluff Alfred's pillow, "look where that little habit's gotten him, eh?"

He pulled on the edge of the pillowcase to straighten the wrinkles and was surprised to hear something crackle beneath his fingertips. For a moment he debated his moral obligations, but upon remembering the enormous favor he was doing Alfred not only by keeping his secret but by using his precious time to help some poor horny bloke he had never laid eyes on before in his life, he dismissed all hesitation and reached into the pillowcase, seizing a crumpled leaf of yellow notebook paper that looked as if it had been folded in half far more than once.

He unfolded it and saw that it was a letter, written in thick, square letters and smudged with graphite and eraser marks in places. There was no doubt in his mind that Alfred had written it. The date at the top corner read the twentieth of December, and Arthur wondered if perhaps he hadn't gotten to finish it because of his roommate's illness. It was addressed to his mother, not to a lover or a close friend, and so Arthur couldn't see the harm in taking a peek.

_Dear ma, _it read.

_Merry Christmas! Have you gotten any snow yet? I know it's uncommon for Virginia, but hey, it happened last year, so why not again? Boy, that sure was pretty. Over here it's mostly grey but snow would make for difficult flying so I can't complain. Still, maybe we'll get a little on Christmas. I'd like to see how England looks like that. _

_You're probably afraid for Matt and I want you to know he's alright. I see him every day and he's getting better. He went through a lot and I know he'll want to tell you when he gets home so I won't say much except for that I'm proud of him. Or…I guess he'll tell you about it the next time he comes to visit. He'll want to go to Canada first. You know him. _

_Speaking of, his doctor is a real character. Kinda pushy. The biggest eyebrows you've ever seen. Thinks he's the bee's knees. But I feel like we can trust him with Matt. So don't worry, okay? He's in the best of hands, as Dr. Kirkland told me one time. Boy does he think he's great. Typical British._

Arthur realized he had unconsciously brought a hand up to his eyebrows and promptly dropped it back to the sheets.

_But actually, they aren't so bad. The British, I mean. They're _– a large eraser mark – _they're pretty…_ - another eraser mark; Arthur couldn't help but feel somewhat resentful – _they're okay. You gotta respect them, you know? They've been through a lot. I don't think we can really understand what they've had to do. It think that makes them mad but they need us so they don't have a choice. That's why they're mean sometimes. Also they think we're loud. And they don't like our accents. Or how their girls like our accents. _

_Okay, so I was just kidding with that last one, ma. _

_But anyways, things are going just swell. We've got a mission soon and we've been training like you wouldn't believe. But please don't worry for me, ma, you know I'll be okay. I'm doing this for you, I think, so I'll be okay just for you while I'm at it. I'm really excited – _a heavy eraser mark and some smudges of graphite - _okay, I guess I'm afraid, too. But mostly ready. I've been working hard. I'm ready. I want to show these people what America is capable of._

_I don't think they understand yet. _

_Don't worry for me or Matt. We're always thinking about you and we'll be home before you know it._

_Love, _

_Al_

_P.S. –_

And there it ended. Arthur stared for a moment, torn between feeling irritated by its being unfinished and surprised, almost touched, his mind dared to venture, by some of the things Alfred had written. Caught up in his indecision, he merely remained still for a long minute, staring blankly at the letter, wondering if Alfred could have really made such acute cultural observations, if he really meant the fond albeit begrudging respect he had expressed towards the people of Britain, if he was really afraid, where the hell he had acquired such an honest, gentle, but nevertheless razor-sharp intellect, and why the hell he chose to hide it away beneath that idiotic grin.

It took him a moment to consider that perhaps Alfred wasn't hiding anything and it was Arthur who wasn't looking hard enough.

* * *

><p>Alfred found Arthur back in his seat at Toris' bedside, flipping through a worn old military-issued copy of the Bible, and if he were to check beneath his pillowcase he would find the letter folded up precisely as he had left it. Perhaps he would have seen the effort made to smooth out the countless creases running through the paper, the fresh fingerprint left where Arthur had accidently smudged his thumb against the soft graphite, but even if he did notice he would think nothing of it; he was nothing if not a trusting young man.<p>

Arthur heard Alfred come in and dump a pile of clothes on the floor. He turned around to tell him that he would do better to pick up his things, but instead found himself paused, bent around over the edge of the chair, one hand halfway through flipping a page.

Alfred tilted his head to the side questioningly, casting water from his hair to the gentle slope of his shoulders, where the droplets beaded and began to slide down his sides, curving over the slight swell of his abdomen until they disappeared into the slender trail of golden hair that jutted from where he clutched a towel around his waist. His skin was flushed from the hot water and his hair was stained dark, clinging to the frames of his glasses so that only glimpses of his eyes peeked past. The curve of his waist was soft, but lean and muscled, as though he were still nothing more than a boy and yet a very grown man at the same moment.

"It's just my uniform," he protested. "I'll pick it up later."

Recovering from his surprise, Arthur glared and turned his nose into the air.

"Fine, fine," he sighed, perhaps a trifle exaggeratedly because there was a strange lump caught in his throat all of a sudden, "but please, Alfred, _do_ put some clothes on."

Much to his vexation, Alfred merely stared down at the floor confusedly.

"But…where'd they go?"

Arthur slammed the tattered Bible shut and marched over to the corner of the room, tossing a shirt and some pants at Alfred and then turning to face the wall, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Well, hurry up."

He heard Alfred snort from behind and asked him to please share whatever was so very funny.

"You don't have to turn around, you know. We're all dudes here. Unless, of course," the smirk was palpable in his voice, "there's something you're not telling me."

Arthur glared harder and told Alfred to kindly fuck off, though his effort was really only appreciated by the wall he was facing because he was most certainly not going to turn around. Alfred merely chuckled again, but Arthur heard fabric rustling and a few moments later he was laughingly given the all-clear.

"Oh, wipe that grin off your face," he hissed as he and Alfred stepped out into the hallway. "Just because I happen to have principles..!"

Alfred sniggered as they went into the stairwell, on their way back to the hospital. "Principles is one thing, but come on, you're acting like we're still in the Victorian era."

Arthur sniffed. "I'm surprised you're even capable of forming such an analogy." But suddenly he remembered the letter and swallowed heavily, considering the aftertaste of his words, and was silent for a moment before he sighed and reluctantly cast a contrite glance at the back of Alfred's bomber jacket.

"But then again," he mumbled, "you _do _never fail to surprise me."

They nearly collided when Alfred stopped in his tracks and stared at Arthur over his shoulder with an expression of unabashed shock, eyes wide and mouth hanging somewhat ajar. Arthur let out a cry of frustration and shoved him forwards, telling him not to be so goddamn thick all the time and to just get going already.

"Sure," Alfred said finally, fiddling with the frames of his glasses for a moment more, "this way."

Fortunately, the rest of the journey to the exit was spent in peace, the silence punctuated solely by the sound of their footsteps clicking against the tile and the occasional burst of conversation from one of the common rooms. However, when Alfred opened the door and stepped aside to allow Arthur to pass, tipping his cap with a smirk, they were met with a gust of freezing air and snowflakes, rushing through the door and lodging in Arthur's hair and eyelashes.

Alfred took one look at him and dissolved into laughter, and it was only after some considerable minutes of gasping that he was able to tell Arthur that he had some snow stuck in his eyebrows. Arthur glared, but only halfheartedly, unable to keep himself from speculating as to whether Alfred was thinking about his mother, if he was wondering whether she, too, was watching the snow fall an entire ocean away back in Virginia, if her mind was on her two sons locked up in the grey cage of the English countryside by the war.

But Alfred was beaming and laughing as they began to charge through the storm, trying to catch the flakes on his tongue and tripping over his own feet in the process, clinging onto his cap with one hand. Arthur walked a few paces behind, unable to resist the slightest of smiles despite himself. It was dark but the snow sparkled, and he could catch glimpses of the frames of Alfred's glasses and the gold of his hair from time to time. The lights of the hospital blazed in the distance, the lights of the base blazed at their backs, and the snow was already crisp and deep beneath their feet, promising to have spread into a blanket by morning.

"Hey, Arthur," asked Alfred breathlessly as they neared the hospital, skipping back to his side. "What do you guys do for Christmas here, anyways?"

Arthur shrugged. "I haven't been here long enough to know. I would usually celebrate with my family, but this year is much too busy."

Alfred leaned out to grin at him, eyes dancing.

"So there's no tradition or nothing?"

Arthur actually winced. "Don't use double negatives, it's repulsive," he snapped before he considered for a moment and answered no, no traditions, not that he knew of.

Alfred's grin widened. "Alright, then…let's make one!"

Arthur blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Tomorrow's Christmas Eve!" Alfred spread his arms out wide. "Let's hit the city!"

Arthur stopped, holding up his hands warningly.

"Oh, _no_."

Alfred screeched to a halt and whirled to face him, folding his arms over his chest, still wearing that damn grin.

"Come on, it'll be fun!"

"I don't believe you."

"I promise!"

"You lie."

Alfred's lower lip jutted out. "It's not like you've got anything better to do…"

Arthur let out a bark of laughter and remarked that anything would be better than _hitting the city _with Alfred. To his dismay, Alfred merely chuckled good-naturedly, as always, and continued to pester him, running circles around him as they approached the hospital, persisting until Arthur finally broke and snapped that he would have one drink and nothing more, and only because he wanted the damn subject to be promptly dropped.

Alfred mooned at him. "This is gonna be awesome."

"Somehow, I don't find that to be terribly reassuring."

Alfred feigned a frown, but laughter glittered in his eyes. "Aw, you're just stuck up, Artie."

"I most certainly am not," Arthur turned his nose into the air. "Nor am I under the impression that I am the _bee's knees, _I'll have you know."

Alfred shot him a very quizzical look.

"Sorry?"

Arthur chuckled and sighed in the same moment, clicking open the door to the hospital and stepping inside with a little shake of his head.

"Never mind, Alfred."

* * *

><p><strong>AN -<strong> Incidentally, the next chapter will be published on Christmas Eve! :D

(I'm also rushing to finish a USUK canon oneshot to be published on Christmas Day derp~)

**Thanks for reading **and keeping up with this story so far - you guys are impossibly wonderful.

Until the next chapter!

PS - Just a quick (okay somewhat long) note to the anon kinoko:

Ah, how I wish you had a site account! XD Ehm, thank you so much for paying enough attention to the story to come around with a grammatical correction. ^^ You're right, of course! However, you've probably noticed that I haven't changed my quotations. This is because I already knew that they weren't conventionally correct. I wanted to fiddle with the flow of dialogue, to try incorporating prose essentially into the actual spoken text, and since this would be unacceptable in a formal piece, I thought I'd try it out in fanfiction. Essentially, for the most part, I regard _The Elements of Style _as a deity, but what fun is writing without a little leeway, eh? It's not ignorance but rather experimentation! :3 And feel free to tell me you hate my experiment, ahaha, I wouldn't blame you if you did so. Anyways, I really do appreciate the feedback! ^^


	4. Chapter 4

On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, the packages sent by friends and relatives of the hospital's patients arrived, and amongst the load of mail was a small parcel addressed to Matthew from a town in Virginia whose name Arthur didn't recognize. However, the script of the address was soft and feminine and the stamp featured a painted flower, and Matthew's smile softened when he cradled the package in his lap. The sender must have been their mother.

Matthew ripped away the string and tore at the wrapping to reveal a slender leaf of yellow paper, not unlike the letter that still slept between the pillowcase and the pillow of Alfred's bunk, then a carefully embroidered handkerchief, and finally three slender ribbons of peppermint candy, wrapped in papery foil that glinted in the thin hospital light, casting little fragments of silver onto the ceiling. Elizaveta only allowed Matthew to eat a small corner, but his face glowed and Arthur thought he saw tears in his eyes.

"Is all…well?" Arthur couldn't help but to ask when Matthew began to read the letter and handled it as though he thought the paper would break apart between his fingers, mouthing the words to himself as if they would crumble away beneath the pressure of his gaze. "That's from your mum, isn't it?"

Matthew nodded, swallowing, and said that he hadn't laid eyes on her since he was ten years old. Arthur paused, the tip of his pen poised against his clipboard, and said he was sorry. Matthew shook his head.

"Don't be," he murmured, "it's only that dad took me with him and left Al with her. Simple, really."

Arthur turned his gaze to the floor. "And yet…she's sent you…"

Matthew smiled, the curve of his lips slender, sad, but genuine.

"She just has the biggest, truest heart I've ever known." His expression softened, affection touching the corners of his mouth. "She passed that much on to her son."

Arthur blinked and felt his cheeks color when he realized that Matthew hadn't been referring to himself. He coughed lightly, straightened the lapels of his medical coat, and ran a hand through his hair.

"Well, she sounds like a wonderful woman."

Matthew chuckled. "Just ask Al about her and he'll never shut up."

Arthur was halfway through expressing how very little he doubted that statement when, as if on cue, Alfred exploded through the door of the infirmary, brandishing an identical sheet of bright yellow paper, and stumbled over to Matthew's beside to inspect his brother's parcel, grabbing the handkerchief and lifting it to examine the embroidery, running his finger gingerly along the intricate stitches.

"Ah, it's in French," he grumbled eventually, and Matthew laughed softly.

"She remembers a lot from her school days," he said, taking the kerchief back and folding it carefully into a soft white square of linen. "How is she?"

Alfred shrugged. "She's ma."

Then he and Matthew laughed for a while and Arthur couldn't help but to resent the fact that he failed to understand the joke. Eventually, however, the two brothers fell back into talking, Alfred arranging himself in his familiar old chair and Matthew leaning back against his mountain of pillows as Arthur bustled about making sure all the patients were as comfortable as possible for Christmas, jotting notes down on his clipboard, fussing with the tinsel on the tree in the corner, eventually being shooed away by Elizaveta, and finally returning to his trusty stool, where he was almost immediately assaulted by an Alfred who desperately wanted to know what he was planning on wearing that evening.

He made this demand quite loudly, and Arthur suddenly felt a desperate urge to frantically shush him, but remembered his reputation just in time and resisted, turning his nose primly into the air so as to be able to ignore Matthew's raised eyebrows and Elizaveta's having turned sharply around from where she had been preparing some medicine.

"How could I possibly decide such a thing when you still haven't revealed_ where _you've decide to sequester me off to?" He rolled his eyes as if he were immensely exhausted. "Honestly, boy, sometimes you really -"

"Hey, don't end your sentence with a preposition, Arthur," interrupted Alfred, tilting his head to the side with the shadow of a smirk. "It's harsh on the ears. Really, I would have expected better from you."

Arthur swallowed heavily, slowly released his grip on his pen, and repeated his inquiry as to where they were destined that fine evening through gritted teeth. Alfred sighed and massaged his temple as if Arthur were somehow the one being difficult.

"I already _told _you, man," he groaned, "we're gonna hit the city! Go to a bar, get…uh, smashed, as you would say…do some stupid shit, maybe break the law once or twice, just kinda have the greatest time of our lives, you know," he rolled his eyes, "pretty standard stuff."

Arthur chose to ignore the suggestion that involved committing a felony and instead commented that Alfred probably couldn't take more than a teaspoon of liquor, much less get properly smashed, and certainly couldn't hold his own against a born-and-bred Englishman. Alfred laughed long and loud, scrunched up his eyes, stuck out his tongue, and gave his solemn promise to drink Arthur beneath the table. They were halfway through their second round of threats and insults when Elizaveta appeared, one eyebrow raised and a dangerous twinkle in her eye.

"So you two are going out, eh?" She fidgeted with the edge of her skirt and fiddled with the sprig of holly that she had tucked behind her ear for the sake of festivity, and Arthur could have sworn that the tops of her cheeks were pinker than usual. He frowned.

"Against my will."

Elizaveta's eyebrow arched higher still. "Oh really?"

Arthur shot her a very quizzical look and said yes, really, at which point Alfred decided to lean in and interject that Arthur was just a bad sport and was actually itching to go because he never had any fun. Arthur sharply replied that his definition of _fun _would doubtlessly differ greatly from that of some incompetent yank wannabe pilot with whom he was not exactly looking forwards to spending the entire evening.

When Arthur glanced back at Elizaveta, he found that she was gazing quite fixedly at him, and her cheeks darkened considerably when she realized he had noticed and was furrowing his brow questioningly.

"Oh, I…" She glanced down and seemed to discover that she was carrying a tray of medicine. "I should really go hand these out now!" She flipped her hair over her shoulder. "You two boys have fun tonight!" And with that she was hurrying across the room, high heels singing against the tile floor.

"That was weird," commented Alfred, fiddling with his glasses.

"She's a strange girl," replied Arthur almost absentmindedly, "and I can't say I quite understand everything she says and does."

Alfred nodded, and they were quiet for a long moment before he sniggered and reminded Arthur that he still hadn't revealed what he was planning to wear out that night.

"Fuck off," Arthur hissed. "I'll wear this medical coat if I bloody want to."

"Ah, please don't do that!" cried Alfred, seeming genuinely distressed, at which point Matthew piped up, softly telling him that it was obviously only a joke. Arthur jumped slightly in his stool, having almost forgotten that the boy was still awake and had in fact been propped up on his mountain of pillows as an observer the entire time.

"I bet _you'll_ just wear that damn bomber jacket, anyways," he muttered under his breath as the two brothers argued over whether he had been joking about the medical coat or not; Alfred really seemed quite convinced to the contrary and was obviously irritating his younger brother at a rather remarkable rate. Nonetheless, Arthur couldn't help but smile at the sight of Matthew gripping at his hair and almost raising his voice in vexation - Alfred was an exhausting experience and the boy would certainly sleep well that night.

Now, Arthur thought wryly, how happy he would be if by the end of the evening he could say the same.

* * *

><p>He wore slacks, an oxford, a dark green satin tie, and the hopes that Alfred wouldn't make a scene. He only owned one real coat, scratchy black wool that hung heavily over his slender shoulders and nearly reached down to his ankles, and he immediately buttoned this up against the cold, glad that Alfred wasn't paying much attention to his outfit after all, busy as he was rambling on about the terrific time they were about to enjoy and just how drunk they were going to get. The nearest town wasn't terribly far away and Alfred kept the crisp air around them alive and static with conversation as they walked, puffing his breath in thick clouds of white and swinging his arms enthusiastically, always seeming to somehow stay a few paces ahead of Arthur. The night was cold and clear, peppered by stars, the sparkle of the snow, and the occasional soft glow of electric lamplight, which increased as they neared the town and the soft sound of life began to swirl into the air, composed of the murmur of talk and laughter and the clatter of ice cubes sliding against the sides of empty glasses.<p>

It soon became apparent that the pilots were swarming the streets, beers and whiskies and bourbons raised, shouting and laughing and making shameless passes at women in their brash American accents. The clear, overtly formed syllables of the foreign English seemed to clash against the antique buildings and cobblestone streets of the town, which were so used to the thin clipped shapes spoken by the tongues who knew the language first that they seemed to groan and buckle beneath the weight of such newness, exactly as did every good Englishwoman whose hand happened to be kissed by a strapping, winking young yank with a twinkle in his sky-blue eye. At first, Arthur snorted and wondered what his people were coming to; however, he was soon forced to recall who exactly was tugging on his arm and dragging him through the streets, on their way to the nearest pub, and reluctantly admitted that he was perhaps being a touch hypocritical.

Alfred bustled him to the counter and ushered him into a barstool before he shouted for the barkeep and ordered a shot of bourbon. Arthur tiredly asked for a gin and tonic and fiddled with the peanuts in the bowl on the counter while they waited, letting the noise and the dusty golden light and the warmth and music of the bar surround him for a long moment. The place was packed; there were men laughing, drinking, throwing darts, a few women scattered here and there, giggling and sipping colorful drinks from glasses with stems as graceful and slender as were their wrists and legs, a handful of couples dancing on the floor, and an absolute sea of military uniforms, indeed a veritable rainbow of grey and brown and green canvas with pins and medals sparkling on breast pockets like miniature stars.

The barkeep brought their drinks and Arthur took a long, grateful moment with his gin, sighing in appreciation for the familiar burning sensation at the back of his throat.

"It would seem you're not the only one who's had this idea," he muttered, setting his glass back down on the counter, "it's as if the entire fucking town came here tonight."

Alfred grinned. "Sounds like a good time to me."

Arthur frowned disapprovingly and lifted his glass again. "I _do _hope you're aware that I'm hardly going to trust _your _judgment regarding such a matter."

Alfred smirked around the rim of his glass.

"Hey, keep an open mind, Artie."

Arthur was on the point of retorting when suddenly there was a loud crash and then a shout from behind Alfred; they turned, and when Arthur leaned out from his barstool a bit he could see the cause of the noise, this being that a large man, whose limbs seemed to be too long and heavy for his body, had spilled his drink across the counter and was at that point being rather loudly berated for his clumsiness by a slender young man who wore a blue cap over his pale hair. They argued for a few minutes more before they noticed their observers and the smaller man immediately snapped upright, bobbing his head up and down respectfully and apologizing for the disruption in thickly accented English.

"Shucks, it's no trouble," answered Alfred amusedly as the other man grinned crookedly at them, slinging an arm around the shoulders of his smaller companion with a slurred chuckle.

"Mathias," hissed the young man, one hand going up to hold his cap in place, "that's enough."

"What, don't be silly, Lukas," drawled Mathias, jostling him closer by the neck, "these…these guys are alright."

Alfred shot Arthur an amused sideways glance and Arthur had to turn and cup his hand over his mouth to disguise his smile. Despite Lukas' protests and sighs, Mathias had soon settled into the stool nearest to Alfred and ordered another drink, clutching his reluctant companion to his side by the waist. His hair was wild, twisting upwards from his scalp in every which way, and his eyes sparkled with a brilliance that clearly stemmed from a source deeper than mere alcohol. His laugh was a great booming sound, his smile was a lopsided curve that seemed to overwhelm his face, and his shoulders were broad and strong, made all the more distinct by the thick square lines of his black overcoat. Contrarily, Lukas was slender and polite, only tolerating the enthusiasm and manhandling of his companion, all the while quietly surveying Arthur and Alfred with his pale gaze, expressionless except for traces of irritation when Mathias jostled him too roughly or suggestively.

"You're a pilot," Lukas finally spoke, nodding at Alfred. "Are you American?"

Alfred beamed. "You bet your sweet ass! The name's Alfred F. Jones," he was suddenly hooking his arm around Arthur's neck and drawing him forwards, jarring his chin against his shoulder and nearly making him choke on a swallow of gin, "and this here is Doctor Kirkland," he proclaimed, almost proudly, "it's kinda a long story, but he's gotten around to being a good buddy of mine. He'll act kinda mean sometimes, but really he's a swell guy."

Arthur coughed, wiped at his stinging eyes, elbowed Alfred sharply in the ribs, and offered his hand to Lukas, saying he was very much delighted to make his acquaintance. Lukas was reaching out to accept the handshake with a nod of gratitude when Mathias lunged forwards and clapped Alfred on the shoulder, grinning doggedly.

"Bah, what's all this formality, eh?" he exclaimed, his accent tripping over a few syllables, "we're all friends here, boys, all friends here, aren't we?"

Alfred laughed appreciatively and gripped Mathias' shoulder, disregarding Arthur's heavy sigh of disapproval and the arch of Lukas' eyebrows.

"Ain't that the truth!" he beamed, "and just where are y'all from?"

While Arthur was recovering from the initial shock of actually hearing such a dreadfully colloquial pronoun utilized in a sentence, Mathias drained his glass and happily answered that he was a Danish soldier, and that his stuffy companion hailed from Norway. Naturally, Alfred was immediately intrigued, and he began to shamelessly pepper the two with questions regarding their experience in the war: how they had the luck to escape their countries when they did, if they had experienced any combat, if they had ever seen a real live Nazi before, and if so, did they give them a good sock in the jaw, and with which fist?

Mathias laughed his great booming laugh and said he had socked a few in the stomach good and hard with some proper old-fashioned lead, and Alfred's eyes grew very wide indeed. However, Arthur frowned (though by then he supposed he should have been used to the way soldiers spoke, all boast and no real feeling) and saw his disapproval reflected in Lukas' expression, along with something like an apology.

"I am sorry for my friend," he whispered eventually, leaning forwards with the words falling thickly from his tongue as Alfred and Mathias continued laughing and drinking, "he is very young and can't understand what he is really saying, but he is a good man, and I love him you see."

Arthur swallowed, surprised by such sudden brashness from a stranger who had initially seemed to be so subdued, and nodded minutely.

"This boy, too," he murmured, gesturing both exhaustedly and fondly at Alfred. "He…never ceases to surprise me, at least."

Lukas was still for a moment before he smiled for the first time that evening, just the slightest bend at the bow of his lips but a smile all the same, and nodded almost imperceptibly.

"It is because they are soldiers," he sighed, "that is what they do."

Arthur looked at him very sharply, but just then the music abruptly sank into the soft beginning chords of a classic old waltz, and Mathias was staggering upwards and hooking both arms around Lukas' waist, pulling them nearly flush together, ignoring his protests and begging him to dance. Lukas sighed, pushed at his captor's arms, rolled his eyes, but eventually allowed himself to be led away and whirled onto the floor amongst the other couples, casting a farewell glance at Arthur over Mathias' shoulder as the two of them floated, intertwined, through the crowd, pale eyes seeming to glitter in the dim dusty light of the pub.

Arthur tried to turn back to his half-empty drink but found that he couldn't quite manage to do so; he glanced upwards confusedly to see Alfred latched onto the edge of his sleeve, eyes glimmering dangerously from behind the smudged frames of his glasses. Arthur swallowed.

"No. Never. Don't even bother to dream, Alfred, because I_ won't_."

Women were scarce in times of war, and nobody would look twice to see two men dancing together; in fact, the sight was not uncommon, seeing how there were no other partners to be found. But to actually venture onto the dance floor, lit with the flickering gold glow of the electric lamps, wreathed in cigar smoke and perfume, surrounded by couples revolving around each other, the skirts of the ladies fanning out around their slender ankles in clouds of tulle and satin and chiffon, the fine-polished shoes of the men leading them into each step, toes singing against the wood floor in time with the slow soft heartbeat of a rhythm, was too much.

"Come on, Arthur."

With a little more gin Arthur might have ventured a swing, perhaps even a jitterbug despite its American origins, but no amount of alcohol could bring him to dance out a waltz, let alone with someone such as Alfred balancing their hand at his waist and carefully leading him along with the beat.

"Absolutely not."

But Alfred neither cared much for nor heeded words, and he persisted, even going so far as to rise from his seat and offer Arthur his hand, smiling down at him widely so that his teeth showed. The dirty gold light of the pub matched the tone of his hair, caught against the frames of his glasses, his eyelashes, the curve of his mouth and the strong line of his jaw. Arthur eyed his hand warily.

"I said _no,_ Alfred."

Alfred sighed.

"Oh, but you never say what you mean."

Then he lunged forwards and grabbed Arthur's hand, pulling him stumbling from the barstool until he pressed close against his chest, laughing as they nearly collapsed backwards into the other couples, only just managing to set them both upright as he slipped one hand to Arthur's waist and fell immediately into the rhythm of the dance as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Arthur opened his mouth but was rendered unexpectedly breathless when Alfred swept him around a corner, laughing and grinning and only scarcely avoiding treading on Arthur's toes. However, they soon fell into a gentler rhythm, staying in the same general area of the floor and swaying slowly with the pull of the music, the swish of skirts, the tap of toes, the whisper of sweet nothings.

"You see, is this really so bad?" Alfred had stopped laughing but his eyes still glowed, and Arthur glared.

"It most certainly is. I hope you realize that this all is positively ridiculous." He turned his nose into the air even though he was still stumbling over his own feet. "I'm not a girl, you know."

To his surprise, Alfred chuckled quietly, voice sinking.

"I know."

Arthur blinked and looked away, spotting Mathias and Lukas revolving in the middle of the dance floor, their pale hair and the heavy black overcoat striking an amusing contrast with the delicate swirling ladies and the dapper young men kissing their soft white fingers. A giggling couple whisked past Alfred and Arthur, the girl's enormous lemon-yellow skirts nearly brushing against their ankles, and Arthur felt heat touch the back of his neck to see that the boy was a soldier, and that the two seemed to be very much in love. How silly they were to have allowed such a thing to happen. The boy would be torn away soon, he would see men die and he would be changed, and even if he returned to her lemon-colored tulle embrace he would only be able to rest his head upon her breast and cry for a moment before he longed for the flavor of adventure and death again, because having tasted the dust and blood and gunpowder on his tongue he would discover that he needed these flavors desperately more than he could ever need solitude and comfort again. Indeed, the young were fools, but Arthur had always been so much older than his years.

"Alfred," he said quietly, "what made you want to join the war?"

Alfred stared down at him, his smile fading abruptly into surprise.

"Well…what makes you ask?"

Arthur glared. "Stop being cheeky and answer my question or I really will step on your goddam toes."

Alfred was quiet for a moment, then he shrugged.

"Well, I was bored, for one thing…and being a pilot sounded cool. My…" he paused for a moment, "my dad had shown me how to fly when I was little, and I thought it might be neat to be a real live pilot, I guess. I dunno. Everyone was calling them heroes, so…"

Arthur cut him off with a roll of the eyes. "Of course. I should have known."

Alfred tilted his head to the side with a little frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're a rash little boy, after all," Arthur sighed. After a long moment of silence, he looked up to see that Alfred's frown had deepened and that when he spoke, his voice taken on a firmness that Arthur hadn't heard before.

"Now look here, Arthur," he said evenly, "if you think I ran off to war just to be a hero, you've got it all wrong. Sure, that was part of it, I won't lie to you, but it's not like I haven't heard about everything that's going on out here, everything the Axis is doing. I heard about the Blitz. I heard about everything. It's not just men that are dying, it's women and children, too, and freedom and democracy are being threatened. I'm an American. My baby brother is in the goddamn RCAF. I _had _to help," he turned back to Arthur, "but I also _want_ to help."

Arthur could only stare, stunned by the conviction in Alfred's tone and fixated on the serious expression that recreated the lines of his face, cutting the boyish curves of his cheekbones into strong square angles, heightening the slender bend of his mouth into a determined line, accentuating the heavy dip of his lower lip, the shadows across his chin. The murky gold light played odd tricks across his features, darkening the blue of his eyes and muddying his hair to the shade of brass, dust motes dancing through the air between them to catch on the frames of his glasses, clinging to the lenses. His expression was fierce, but his hand was gentle and firm about Arthur's waist when the music abruptly swooped down into a lower chord and they swooped right along with it. Still, Arthur gasped, overcome with a rush of dizziness, and suddenly thought he was falling, too fast and too far and with too little warning, though he felt Alfred's arm secure on the curve of his hip. A moment more of bending backwards with the decrescendo and they had returned to the old rhythm, the familiar back-and-forth movement, with Arthur breathing heavily in time with the beat, flushed by fright, disoriented, not even sure of where his own feet fell anymore.

He shook Alfred from his hip and stepped back, unconsciously bringing his hand to his temple.

"That's…" he mumbled, unable to lift his eyes from the floor, "enough of_ that_ for one night."

* * *

><p>They stumbled back to the air base far later than Arthur had ever intended, occasionally colliding or leaning on each other's shoulder for support, though they really weren't so much tipsy as they were exhausted. A few flakes of snow fluttered around them every once in a while, but otherwise the night was still, frozen, the ground icy beneath their uncertain footsteps and the moon filling the bowl of the sky with harsh white light that illuminated the fallen snow, mapping out the branches of the trees in webs of glittering white.<p>

They soon saw the lights of the base in the distance and heard the rumbling of the soldiers' voices; Alfred let out a cheer of victory and lurched into a run, cackling with laughter and taunting Arthur for following so slowly behind, though he eventually doubled back to skip circles around him, begging him to hurry up. Arthur merely smiled, albeit more fondly than he had ever intended.

"Hush, Alfred, we're nearly there," he said quietly, as if he could shatter the air by speaking too loudly, "just a few moments longer."

As if to affirm his words, a handful of pilots appeared on the horizon as if from nowhere; they let out a cry of recognition when they spotted Alfred, and Arthur thought that some of their faces seemed familiar and realized that he must have run into them when he had gone to treat Toris.

"Jones!" called one of the pilots, breaking from the others and sprinting towards them. "Have you heard?"

Alfred took a few steps forwards to meet the young man halfway, reaching out to grip his shoulder in greeting, grin gleaming in the moonlight.

"Nope, I've been out celebrating with the doctor," he gestured back at Arthur with a little wink before he turned back to his friend. "What's the news?"

The pilot straightened his cap, dipping his chin down as he spoke; Arthur couldn't precisely hear what he was saying, but he frowned as he watched Alfred's expression slowly melt from eagerness to surprise and perhaps worry, his eyebrows drawing upwards and his lips thinning.

"Oy." Arthur took a step forwards, crossing his arms over his chest. "What's going on?"

Alfred straightened his glasses and cupped one hand thoughtfully over his mouth.

"We're, uh…" he spoke around his fingers, "we're off in three days."

Arthur blinked. "I see." He paused a long moment, eyes flitting between Alfred and the other pilots, who had since surrounded them, and swallowed, making his decision without another thought.

"Best of luck, then."

And with that, he turned on his heel and began to stalk away, intent on forgetting everything, the yellow letter, the filthy gold light of the bar, the hand on the curve of his hip, on convincing himself that there was nothing to forget, never had been, never would have been. He had always been older than his years and he was not the girl in the lemon-colored skirt. He would avoid that fate at whatever cost.

He must have been halfway between the base and the hospital when he heard footsteps behind him, crunching frantically through the snow, and came to a halt with a sigh, not needing to turn to know who was in pursuit.

"Wait up, Arthur!" Alfred cried, even though Arthur had since stopped moving, and stumbled to a halt in front of him, glasses scarcely hanging onto the bridge of his nose and a few flakes of snow clinging to his eyelashes.

"You can never make anything easy for me, can you?" Arthur muttered without looking up from where his feet were lodged snugly in the snow. Alfred merely tilted his head to the side confusedly.

"Ah, no, you don't understand, Arthur," he said hurriedly, having begun to rummage through his pockets. "The evening isn't over until I've given you your present!'

Arthur raised an eyebrow, momentarily distracted.

"A…did you say a present?" To his dismay, he suddenly found that he was embarrassed, of all things, fidgeting with one of the buttons on his coat and shifting from side to side like a schoolgirl. "Alfred, I…I haven't gotten you anything, so really you don't have to…"

Alfred cut his words off with a cry of delight, having evidently discovered what he sought.

"Here," he exclaimed proudly, thrusting something into Arthur's hands with a crooked grin. Arthur cautiously turned what seemed to be a thin, solid bar over in his hands, watching the moonlight glint off the papery coating of silver foil, unable to read the label in the darkness. He glanced up warily at Alfred, whose smile faltered a moment.

"Well, go on," he encouraged, and Arthur hesitantly turned back the edge of the foil an inch. He gasped, and Alfred's grin returned full-force, teeth shining in the dark.

"Chocolate," breathed Arthur, running his thumb incredulously over the smooth dark edge that poked from the foil. He lifted the bar briefly to his nose and felt dizzy from the scent alone. Alfred chuckled, his grin softening at the edges.

"Thought you might like it. It's good stuff, too, I reckon," his voice dropped. "Go on, try it."

Arthur swallowed, thumbed back a little more of the foil, and took a small bite. He found that he was unable to hold back a sigh as the chocolate melted over his tongue, tasting so little like the stuff they could get even back before serious rationing had set in, so rich and smooth and almost overpoweringly sweet, that it was hard to believe the two were the same product. He only realized that he had torn the rest of the foil away and was stuffing the bar into his mouth as fast as he could when Alfred laughed again and gently caught his wrist.

"Hey, nobody's gonna take it from you, Arthur," he said softly, amusement touching the corners of his eyes, and Arthur lowered the chocolate immediately, feeling his cheeks warm with embarrassment.

"S-so sorry -" he stammered, but was cut off by another low chuckle from Alfred.

"Don't be silly, you've got nothing to apologize for," he murmured very quietly, and Arthur swallowed, realizing that Alfred still had hold of his wrist and was turning it slowly in his hand, thumb running up and down his pulse, eyes trained on Arthur's face, expression unintelligible but still setting something aflutter in his chest.

"E-even so…" Arthur faltered; Alfred seemed to be closer than before, the frames of his glasses catching the moonlight and casting curious shadows across his face, making his hair gleam like silver and marking out the lines of his cheekbones, his chin, his slightly-parted lips. They were quiet for a very long moment, then Alfred muttered something that sounded like _oh to hell with it already _and lunged forwards, his other hand going up to cup Arthur's chin as he pressed his mouth firmly against his. He probably tasted the chocolate on his lips, Arthur thought dazedly, unable to reciprocate for the shock of it all until Alfred had pulled away with a tentative smile, tongue darting out to lick his lips and prove Arthur's suspicions.

"I was right," said Alfred quietly. "It is good stuff."

Arthur swallowed and felt color bloom across his cheeks. "I…you…that…how…" He took a deep breath, willing his face and neck to cool. "I say, how dare you!"

Alfred opened his mouth, but before he could say a word somebody was calling his name in the distance, shouting that he had better hurry in because someone had spotted a senior officer out and about, coming their way. For a moment Alfred's lips ghosted against Arthur's cheek, and then he was gone, scampering back towards the other pilots, leaving a haphazard trail of footprints through the snow, bomber jacket flapping wildly behind him. Arthur stared after him until he disappeared from view, unable to do anything but stand clutching the half-eaten chocolate bar in one hand while the other lingered at his lower lip, miserably realizing that there seemed to be quite a lot he would have to forget, after all.

* * *

><p><strong>AN –<strong> Happy holidays!

(That was my gift to you all, but to shamelessly self-advertise, tomorrow I'm bringing forth a proper canon USUK Christmas oneshot, tee-hee.)

((Despite being Jewish OTL))

**Thank you all, and much love!**


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur enjoyed an excellent training as a diagnostician and concluded that the only cure for Alfred was avoidance. He would pretend not to recognize him. He would soon have Matthew transferred to another doctor. He would dispose of the half-eaten bar of chocolate. He would forget the feel of his lips, the sound of his laughter. He would not become like the girl in the lemon-colored skirts. He was not susceptible. He would not allow it.

Alfred, of course, had other plans.

Christmas morning dawned pale pink and unseasonably warm; by ten o'clock the blanket of snow had grown tattered and riddled by holes, the earth was soggy, the sky was too richly blue, and Arthur was slightly hungover and very confused and more irritable than he had been for a considerable while. He snapped at nurses and even patients and made several tears in his notes with the tip of his pen. Even Elizaveta, usually so fearless, avoided him, jumping at any opportunity to get away from the infirmary, and Matthew smiled uncomfortably and waved him away, assuring him that he was feeling just fine, whenever he drifted near. His mood only worsened as the sun crept towards the middle of the sky and evening began to loom on the horizon, making its presence known first in brushstrokes of muted violet and gold that later melted to soft pinks, oranges, painting the bellies of the clouds and glinting off the remaining snow. Alfred arrived when red began to seep in at the rim of the sky, sketching brass-colored patterns of squares on the floor of the infirmary, and despite having forgotten the dance, the bar of chocolate that was still sitting heavily in the pocket of his medical coat, the fleeting touch of his mouth across his cheek, his lips, Arthur felt his heart stutter.

He steeled himself and hurried into his office before he could be spotted, shutting the door immediately behind himself. He could not allow this to happen, no, he had no option but to prevent it at whatever cost. But still he leaned heavily against the door, clutching his clipboard to his chest, wishing that his pulse weren't thudding quite so frantically. He could hear the vibrations of Alfred's voice through the walls, but couldn't decipher exactly what he was saying, and miserably realized that his palms had become very moist. Would he be asking for Arthur?

Arthur told himself it hardly mattered, but after a minute more of standing there tasting his heart thumping in his mouth, his hands had drifted downwards to feel the side of his medical coat, tracing the outline of the chocolate bar, and he thought that it must have been the heaviest thing in the world for all that it seemed to weigh in his pocket. He glanced at the rubbish bin at the far corner of the room and knew that he could probably make the shot from where he was standing. But when he took the slender bar from his pocket he didn't throw but rather stared, turning it over in his palm again and again, watching the dying sunlight glint off the foil. He lifted it to his mouth, hesitated, lowered it, stared a moment longer, lifted it again, hesitated once more, and finally pressed his teeth to the surface, carefully breaking off one corner. He gingerly turned the chocolate over on his tongue.

It tasted like the kiss. He groaned and sank down against the door, finally letting the candy fall from his hand to rest beside him on the floor, and pressed his knuckles to his temples. Three days. The pilots were leaving in three days. The blink of an eye. What was the use? He told himself aloud that he had to forget and though he felt silly for doing so, he didn't stop, simply kept murmuring _forget forget forget _to himself until it lost any meaning as a word, becoming nothing more than a sound, a hollow order he was forced to inflict on himself.

Inflict, no, what a terrible thing to think, he would be inflicting so much more on himself should he allow himself to forget about forgetting! He mustn't forget about forgetting, he must forget the dance and the chocolate and the brush of lips and the hand at his wrist and the smell of American leather and the glint of moonlight off glasses, but most of all he mustn't forget about forgetting to not forget to forget! Arthur groaned. Not even his own thoughts made sense to him anymore. He glanced reproachfully at the chocolate bar resting at his side.

"I'm hiding," he said to it quite matter-of-factly. "I'm a coward."

The chocolate bar was silent.

"This is all your fault," Arthur told it.

The chocolate neither affirmed nor denied this statement. Arthur sighed.

"I do suppose I have to go out there and settle this mess." He began to fold the foil back into place, taking care to smooth out the creases, buying himself time. "I'll simply treat him as I always have. I've worked at Cambridge University, for heaven's sake. I'm a prodigy." He stood up and tucked the chocolate back into his pocket. "I have a reputation to uphold."

He straightened the lapels of his medical coat and stepped back out into the infirmary. Alfred had his back turned to him, bent as he was over Matthew's bed, elbows rested on the mattress with his chin balanced on his palms, halfway through a bout of laughter. Elizaveta had reappeared and was perched nearby, smiling at the two brothers as she jotted down notes on her own clipboard. Arthur made his way over to the counter and opened a cabinet. His mouth was uncomfortably dry but he sifted calmly through the different pills and medicines, placing carefully measured doses into transparent plastic cups and arranging these on a small metal tray to be distributed to the patients after their supper.

Much to his dismay, Elizaveta was soon shooing him away, telling him not to worry, she would take care of such a routine procedure. Arthur opened his mouth, reached out, hesitated, longing to remain safely occupied with a dull but absorbing task, but she had already begun measuring out the pain reliever and he miserably realized that he would have no further luck in distracting her.

"If you need anything," he said despairingly, "you know where to find me."

Elizaveta turned to cast him a very odd look and he retreated, not daring to turn around. He mustn't forget to forget. Mustn't forget. Mustn't forget. He mustn't forget! No, to forget! Or was it just that he mustn't forget? Forget what? The murky light of the bar, the old-fashioned waltz, the hand on his hip, the hand on his wrist, the lips on his cheek, on his mouth, the breath running down the back of his neck, the flavor of the chocolate? But which? All of them? That was a lot to forget. Or not forget. Or not forget to forget. Or forget, was it simply forget, or was it more complicated than that? Arthur certainly thought so.

"Dr. Kirkland, are you alright?"

Arthur jumped and turned to find Matthew gazing concernedly at him.

"What?" he snapped without meaning to. "I'm just fine, of course."

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "I've had to say your name three times."

"My sincerest apologies." He dared not so much as glance at Alfred lest he should forget to forget, or simply forget, or remember everything, or remember nothing, or do whatever it was he wasn't allowed to do at whatever cost. "Is there something you need?"

"Not really, no." Matthew was regarding him extremely dubiously. "Are you sure you're alright?"

Before Arthur could nod and brush him away with a flurry of excuses, Alfred was leaning forwards on his elbows, pushing up his glasses with his index finger, and if Arthur had dared to look he would have been duly warned of what was to come by the dangerous smirk that was threatening to break across his face.

"He's probably just hungover," Alfred drawled, "had a long night, after all."

To his horror, Arthur felt color rush to his cheeks, and Matthew furrowed his brow, glancing slowly between his brother and his doctor. Two beds down the aisle, Elizaveta was paused in administering a dose of morphine, standing with the tip of the needle still poised against the crook of the patient's elbow, her mouth hanging just slightly ajar. Alfred merely continued to smirk, the light sliding off the frames of his glasses and obscuring his expression. Arthur could have killed him. He felt the weight of the chocolate bar in his pocket. Arthur could have…

But Arthur had to forget.

Matthew coughed lightly, shifting as if he were uncomfortable, causing _Pride and Prejudice _to fall shut across his lap.

"I'm…tired," he said after a long pause. "If you don't mind, Al, I'm gonna take a nap. Merry Christmas."

"Sure thing, bro." Alfred nodded, turning his smirk on Matthew. "I'll see you tomorrow. Merry Christmas."

Matthew seemed to somehow fall asleep the moment his head fell back against the pillow, his breathing leveling out in a matter of seconds, and Alfred stood up, stretching his arms up towards the ceiling. Arthur actually took a step backwards, drawing his medical coat around himself and clutching his clipboard to his chest.

"Until tomorrow, Mr. Jones," he managed, and had nearly reached the door to his office again, was in fact just reaching out to grip the knob, when he felt the tail of his medical coat snag against something. He knew quite well his situation; there was no need to turn around.

"Mr. Jones…" He spoke evenly, between his teeth, though his pulse rushed in his ears. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Please, you know it's just Alfred," said Alfred from behind. "Can I come in?"

Arthur swallowed, cornered.

"If you…insist."

Once they were inside, Alfred leaned forwards and clicked the door shut, keeping his gaze trained on Arthur all the while, expression unintelligible. Though he was still wearing his little brown military cap, his hair seemed to glow in the rapidly dimming sunlight of the late evening, reflecting fragments of light from the frames of his glasses and into his eyes even when half of his face was bathed in shadow.

"Arthur," he said quietly, tucking his hands into the pocket of his bomber jacket. "You know, if you're not careful, you're going to hurt my feelings."

Arthur swallowed, but somehow managed to turn his nose into the air, almost primly, and swear that he had no idea whatsoever as to what Alfred was trying to imply.

"Oh, stop," groaned Alfred, taking a step forwards, which in turn caused Arthur to take a step backwards and realize that he was pressed up against his desk, trapped. "Just…stop."

Arthur gripped the edge of the desk to steady himself, though he tried to disguise this by crossing one ankle over the other.

"Stop what?"

"_This,_" cried Alfred, taking yet another step forwards and reaching out as if to grab Arthur's wrist. Arthur snatched his hand away and clutched it safely against his chest, still struggling to feign nonchalance despite the almost painful thud of his heartbeat. Alfred groaned, straightened his glasses, and lurched forwards again, reaching for Arthur's waist and bending down and looking so determined that fear exploded dizzyingly in Arthur's chest and he nearly scrabbled his way across the top of the desk in his desperation to escape.

"Excuse me," he gasped, leaning as far back as possible, lightheaded from the frantic rhythm of his pulse. "But what _do _you think you're doing?"

Alfred let out another groan, rough and genuine and frustrated, and took the last step forwards so that Arthur couldn't escape his arm as it darted out to snag around his waist, couldn't brush off his hand as it sealed around his wrist, couldn't duck away from him at all, in fact. They collided almost painfully, Alfred's mouth more of striking Arthur's chin than his lips at all at first, though he quickly lurched upwards to correct this error. Arthur himself was too surprised, terrified, overwhelmed, lightheaded, to properly accommodate Alfred's pressing forwards and digging his fingers into his hair; he could only gasp against his mouth and try not to tumble backwards against the desk.

He finally ripped himself away, bracing both his hands against Alfred's chest, dizzy, his breath tearing from his lungs.

"No!" he gasped. "No, I simply won't allow it!

Alfred frowned, but had the good sense not to risk another kiss, instead leaning forwards and taking Arthur's face in his hands, very gently, much too gently as far as Arthur was concerned, forcing him to meet his gaze. His cheeks were flushed, and though his brows were drawn upwards in concern, his eyes glowed.

"But why?"

Arthur swallowed, his throat constricting painfully, and tried to look away only to have Alfred nudge his chin upwards again, once more too tenderly for his own comfort.

"I have a reputation to uphold," he lied.

They were so close that he could feel Alfred sigh.

"Arthur," he murmured, and then he was tilting his chin upwards and kissing him, letting one hand drift from his face to cup the back of his neck while he drew circles across his cheek with his other thumb, careful but clumsy in the same moment. Arthur was still for a long moment as if he were only tolerating this, but then Alfred parted his lips just slightly, a sigh tore unbidden through his throat, and he opened his mouth, wrapping his arms closely around Alfred's neck so that he wouldn't fall back against the desk and upset his carefully arranged stacks of records and documents.

"I won't…" Arthur mumbled when they parted. "When you've gone, I won't...I can't…"

Alfred chuckled, and again Arthur felt rather than heard the sound, rumbling beneath his fingertips.

"I won't ask anything of you, Arthur," breathed Alfred, nudging their foreheads together, meeting his gaze seriously despite his gentle smile. "Only this."

And then it was Arthur who drew Alfred down for another kiss, tangling his fingers into his hair and wrapping his legs around his waist, readily parting his lips and tasting the flavor of cigarettes, old-fashioned American leather, and the faintest trace of chocolate, all the while in the back of his mind ruefully admitting to himself that his diagnosis of avoidance had proved to be awfully far from effective.

* * *

><p>They continued like that for the next few days, and every moment together was terrifying, dizzying, sickening, breathtaking, frustrating, confusing, impossible to understand, like nothing Arthur had ever seen or heard or touched or tasted before, nothing he could have ever been prepared for, nothing he could diagnose, nothing he could organize, nothing at all except for something fresh and foreign and frighteningly wonderful. It didn't seem to matter whether they were merely saying hello in the hallways, as two good friends might, or tangled around each other behind the locked door of the examination room, a mess of arms and legs intertwined and wandering hands and gasps for breath, it was always the same and always a thousand variations in the exact same moment. It was a contradiction. A contradiction had been planted in Arthur's heart and begun spreading deep into his veins and filling his head with fog and infecting every inch of him, and he was allowing it because he couldn't find the will to fight within himself whenever Alfred touched his cheek, murmured something in his ear, kissed him, though he still kicked and bit and scratched and complained his own throat sore in order to disguise this newfound weakness.<p>

But time was his most lethal enemy, and the inevitable was fast approaching. Arthur had warned himself over and over again, had been running over the right things to say for days, the right expressions to wear, had practiced the crisp kiss he would leave on Alfred's cheek when no one was looking a thousand times in his mind, had imagined himself wishing good luck to all the pilots, turning sharply on his heel, marching slowly away without another word, without a glance back. No, he would not look back. It was nothing more than a mission, after all. The holidays were over, he reasoned with himself again and again, the boys were going to have to fight sometime. War was war, without exception, and this was only the beginning. It would be best that he practice waiting.

Still, for all his preparation, when Alfred dropped by the evening before his departure, a glittering pair of gin bottles in hand, Arthur didn't turn him away. Instead he hastily scanned the infirmary, saw that Matthew was asleep and Elizaveta was occupied, and hurried the boy into his office, shutting the door behind them and snatching one of the bottles from his hand. He hurried to his drink cabinet, Alfred following closely behind, and took out a pair of tumblers, working the bottle open with his teeth as he went. Alfred whistled softly as he poured them each a generous glass, not bothering with ice or water.

"That's a talent right there."

Arthur shot him a crooked smirk. "Comes from experience, my boy." He shoved a glass into Alfred's hands. "Go on, drink up."

Alfred mirrored his expression and tilted his glass, taking a long swallow before he leaned back against the windowsill and smiled more warmly, the last rays of the sunset streaming in and filtering through his hair, playing pretty tricks across the frames of his spectacles. Arthur sighed and sat next to him, balancing his tumbler against his knee and waiting for the gin to settle.

"So, where're you off to?" he murmured after a time. "Someplace worthwhile, I hope."

"Worthwhile," said Alfred, slowly, as if he were testing the shape of the word with the tip of his tongue. "Well, I'm not sure how you'd define that, but…Germany, not far west from the French border. They're saying that it's just gonna be a standard raid," he shrugged, "but nobody really knows how much action there'll be."

Arthur smiled sadly into his glass. "I hope none of your boys will be in my hands by the end of it."

"Yeah," murmured Alfred, glancing up at him for a moment with half a smile. "Me too."

They were silent for a long time, drinking and feeling the warmth of the setting sun at their backs.

"Hey, Arthur," said Alfred eventually, and Arthur turned to look at him, feeling quite content with the alcohol in his stomach and the pleasant view and the pleasanter company. Alfred cleared his throat and looked away, drumming his fingertips along the curve of his tumbler of gin.

"I'm going…" he began after a moment, fingers still keeping an erratic rhythm on the glass. "I'm going to miss you."

Arthur blinked, swallowed, then coughed lightly into his fist.

"Well, it's only a day or two, but nevertheless…likewise, Alfred. How strange," he sighed, idly swirling the gin in his glass. "Only a few weeks ago I wouldn't have so much as recognized your name had someone mentioned it to me."

Alfred snorted. "Or you would have given the poor dumbass who brought me up a good sock in the jaw."

Arthur laughed, and Alfred echoed him, clear and long and seeming to ricochet from the ceiling, and the sound was honestly a relief. And then Alfred was suddenly close, very close indeed, and Arthur could do nothing but smile and let himself be drawn in, arranging himself on Alfred's lap as he kissed him, balancing his hands on his shoulders and opening his mouth and allowing himself to be lost for a long moment.

Alfred pulled away to trace his lips along the line of his jaw, and Arthur sighed, running one hand through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, head tilted back so that he was gazing at the ceiling. He had never really taken a good look at it before and realized that the plaster was stained in places and that a web of cracks ran from where the miniature French chandelier – a facetious gift from an old colleague of his – hung from the center. For a moment his lip curled in frustration, then Alfred bit down gently on the skin of his jugular and he snapped forwards, tightening his hold around his neck and burying his mouth in his hair, tasting cheap military shampoo. Alfred pressed him closer, one hand running up beneath his lab coat, and Arthur had neither the strength of body nor will to protest.

"Take off your jacket," he mumbled, tugging at the leather and trying to shove it from Alfred's shoulders, setting his dog tags to jingling beneath his fingertips. "It's in the way."

Alfred laughed softly. "Of what?"

"Hell if I know," hissed Arthur, managing to work the jacket down to his forearms. Alfred didn't move, simply blinked up at him curiously despite his flushed cheeks and mussed hair, and Arthur felt heat rise to his neck for all his domineering façade.

"I'm not planning to shag you in here, if that's what you're thinking." He spoke between his teeth, but his fingers had begun to fumble with Alfred's sleeves in his embarrassment. "I like to think I still retain some shred of dignity, you know."

Alfred laughed again, running his palms up and down Arthur's sides, grin softening when Arthur curved gently into his touch despite his glare.

"I told you, I won't ask anything of you, Arthur." His tone was warm with laughter but his gaze was serious, though a moment later his mouth quirked upwards into a smirk. "Except…except that you don't move, at least not right this minute."

Arthur sniffed, turning his nose into the air. "I had no intention of doing so."

Alfred chuckled softly, his hand going up to cup the back of Arthur's neck, bringing him closer so that the tips of their noses nearly brushed.

"Good," he breathed, "stay right here."

Arthur wanted to roll his eyes but didn't get the chance; Alfred closed the space between them too quickly, and his heart stuttered as they began the kiss gently, though Alfred wasted no time in opening his mouth and drawing Arthur tightly against his chest, his hands drifting from the nape of his neck down his back, fingertips tracing the slender curves of his shoulder blades and the bend of his spine, lingering at the small of his back and eventually sinking lower to slip beneath his rumpled shirt. Arthur gasped at the feel of Alfred's palm pressed flush against his bare skin, but soon relaxed back into the kiss, tilting his chin and toying with the edge of Alfred's collar as he explored the valley of his shoulders.

This continued for a few minutes until Arthur grew bored and pulled away to dive for Alfred's neck, smirking when he sighed and threw his head back, fists curling against the small of Arthur's back. His skin smelt of cologne applied with a clumsy hand and Arthur smiled affectionately against his throat, feeling the frantic lilt of his breathing against his lips.

"Hush, love," he murmured, letting his hands fall from Alfred's shoulder to grip him about the waist, fastening onto his strong hipbones. "We'll get to it."

Alfred leaned back to give Arthur a questioning look, though the effect was somewhat ruined by his skewed glasses and pink face, and Arthur had to cough lightly and dip his chin to disguise the sudden fit of affection that threatened to overtake him. He let Alfred laugh and take his face in his hands to kiss him forcefully, but ground his hips downwards all the same, smirking when the boy bucked again him, sinking his nails into the small of his back with something of a groan. It wasn't long before they had picked up a senseless sort of rhythm, completely devoid of any sort of tempo, the beat poorly composed of gasps and swallows and kisses erratically strung together over their mouths and hands and legs and hips. It wasn't much, but it was certainly enough for Arthur to dig his fingers into Alfred's shoulder and bite down on his lower lip and garble his name, and with the night falling at their backs and the remains of the gin trembling in the forgotten glasses and the mission looming with the dawn, it was the most wonderful and desperate moment he could have imagined possible.

He came with a sigh, grabbing Alfred's face and kissing him until he felt him shiver into his embrace and then collapse against him, burying his face into the crook of his neck. Arthur stared exhaustedly over his shoulder, watching the bruise of night spread slowly from one edge of the sky, chasing away the last traces of light until the stars began to twinkle into place.

Eventually, Alfred chuckled softly against his throat, and Arthur leaned back in his embrace to frown at him.

"Something funny?"

Alfred shook his head slowly from side to side, surprising Arthur by reaching up to stroke his face, running his thumb along the arc of his cheekbone.

"Nothing at all," he murmured, "I guess I'm just in a fine mood."

"That would be the orgasm talking," said Arthur frankly, and Alfred wrinkled his nose.

"Man, do you have to be so technical all the time?"

"Well, you're not exactly being logical," Arthur pointed out, running a hand through Alfred's sweat-dampened bangs. "You're tired and somewhat drunk. You're about to leave on a mission. And what's worse," he glanced downwards with half a smirk, "you seem to have soiled your uniform."

Alfred threw back his head with a laugh.

"But so have you, Dr. Kirkland!" he exclaimed, "what a strange coincidence this is! And besides…" His voice softened and he reached up for Arthur's cheek again. "I'm here with you, aren't I?"

Arthur blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, even though I could be out there risking my life tomorrow…" Alfred smiled gently. "I'm not unhappy because I'm here with you. I'll come back to you. Man," he sighed. "I reckon that right now I must be the happiest man in the whole damn world."

They were quiet for a long moment.

"The most foolish, that's what you are," managed Arthur finally, "how could you even…saying such a thing…I'm truly of half a mind to…you fool!" He pushed against Alfred's shoulder. "Damn fool."

Another silence, during which Alfred merely continued to stroke his cheek, entirely unfazed. Arthur eventually groaned and wrapped his arms tightly around his neck, pressing his lips into his hair.

"What even _are _we, Alfred?" he whispered, as if he were afraid words spoken too loudly would shatter into pieces and cut them. Alfred shrugged.

"You're a doctor and I'm a pilot," he said. "And I'm happy, so don't go trying to rationalize that because it won't work." He kissed him softly. "It doesn't make sense."

A long pause.

"That wasn't what I meant." But Arthur emptied and put away the gin glasses, shut off the lamp, and allowed Alfred to fall asleep on his shoulder because the boy was right. There was no rationalization. No diagnosis. Arthur didn't know what to make of it, but he was exhausted and tipsy and soon fell asleep with his cheek rested on the top of Alfred's head, whether it made any sense to him or not.

* * *

><p>He woke with the sun, cast about the walls and floors in layered bars of pale gold, and alone. He stretched, tasting the tang of old alcohol at the back of his throat and wincing at the discomfort at his crotch, which in turn brought a rush of heat to his face that only worsened when he found a note, scrawled hastily on a torn sheet of his office stationary, stuck to the windowsill.<p>

_Leaving around 10 AM. Matt can tell you where to go. _

_See you soon,_

_-Al_

_PS – Why the hell didn't you remind me to change my pants? You're a doctor, you should remember this kind of thing._

Arthur both spluttered and smiled, and as soon as he had remedied that particular problem himself, he was brewing tea and rushing about pulling at his rumpled hair and wrinkled medical coat and making sure there was no trace of the night before left strewn about his office.

Satisfied, he finished preparing his tea and stepped back out into the infirmary, which was already alive with bustling nurses and snapping doctors and bored patients. He glanced at the clock on the far wall and swallowed to realize that it was already quarter to ten; he hurried to Matthew's bedside and demanded directions, which were readily if not confusedly supplied.

Neither paying heed to Elizaveta's immediate curiosity nor bothering to snatch his jacket, Arthur burst into the morning and broke into a run, both to combat the cold that sliced through his medical coat and so as not to be late. A fresh snow had fallen during the night, and the thin coating of ice hissed and laughed as it broke beneath his feet, striking a sharp juxtaposition with the frantic thud of his heart and the rushing sound that filled his ears. His lungs began to burn about halfway there, but he only stopped once he had reached the edge of the tarmac, taking a moment to compose himself, inhaling desperately and fidgeting with his hair and the sleeves of his coat, toying with the ends of his tie. Five minutes left until ten o'clock or not, he was still Dr. Arthur Kirkland, and certainly liked to think he still had a reputation to uphold.

Nonetheless, he turned and gasped at the sight of the planes lined up in all their splendor, flanks gleaming in the thin winter sunlight, the blues and reds of their wings brilliant against the backdrop of the whites and greys of the countryside. The pilots swarmed around their slender metal legs, helmets and goggles bobbing as they shouted and joked, as if they were preparing for nothing more than a routine drill. A few of them glanced up at Arthur briefly, probably wondering what business such a man had in such a place, but still there was no glimpse of that battered leather jacket, no lopsided glasses, no crooked grin.

Arthur frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, beginning to wonder if perhaps Matthew had been misinformed, when he felt a tug at his collar and turned to face a beaming Alfred, who immediately seized his hand and pulled him behind the building, laughing when he stumbled, though he made sure to help him back upright. Though he still wore the old bomber jacket, the glasses had been replaced by enormous goggles, and his hair was disguised by the classic pilot's helmet. He would have been impossible to find amongst the crowd.

Arthur had planned the brief kiss on the cheek so meticulously, mapping out every instant and considering all possible outcomes, and yet the moment they were out of sight and he was steady on his feet again, he pressed Alfred against the wall of the building, grabbed his face, and kissed him fiercely, their teeth clattering together as he gripped at his hair and swallowed his gasp of surprise. Alfred was still for a long moment before he recovered from the shock and melted into the embrace, opening his mouth to soften the kiss as he reached up to brush a lock of Arthur's hair from his cheek with the slightest touch of his thumb.

At this, Arthur groaned and tore himself away, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and running his own hand through his hair to neaten it, refusing to look at Alfred for fear that he would be again overcome by that strange impulse to kiss him as if his life depended on it.

For his part, Alfred straightened the angle of his cap and goggles and quirked a tentative grin.

"Keep my baby brother safe for me, alright?"

Arthur glared. "Haven't I always?"

Alfred chuckled softly and pressed his lips to Arthur's forehead for a fleeting instant, leaving him surrounded with the heady smell of new leather when he pulled away to go sprinting back to his plane, waving his cap through the air as he went.

"I won't be long, doc!" he hollered as he hoisted himself up to the cockpit. "That's a promise!"

Arthur smiled, nodded, and turned on his heel to return to the infirmary, back to his peaceful existence of patients and paperwork and fixing broken things, this time around not daring to wonder how much a yank's promise was really worth, because war cared not for such matters of the heart.

* * *

><p><strong>AN –<strong> Ah guys, I hate to say this, but there's a chance the next two chapters might be later than usual. I'M SORRY, I know this is the WORST time in the storyline for such a thing to happen, but my winter vacation was crazy, I'm back in school in a few days, and I have a lot of shit to do these next two weeks. Nonetheless, I'll try my best to be punctual. T.T Since the next...oh, four chapters...will be somewhat shorter than usual, I think I'll be able to get them done in time, but I'm not certain.

(Also I'm going to an anime con this weekend, but hey, it's my Christmas present. XD)

**Thank you all so much for reading,** happy 2012, and until the next chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

**AN -** I gave that bitch an update. Bitches love updates.

Um no but seriously, I managed to tackle my schedule and...here we are, right on time! I hope you enjoy.

* * *

><p>Arthur doubled back after the last plane had disappeared over the rim of the blue crystal bowl of the sky, trudging through the snow at a slow but consistent pace, a comfortable rhythm, for a change. There was paperwork to be done and Matthew would need his bandages changed, and Arthur had never been more grateful for his occupation. He would be safe so long as the bustle and careful hurry of life as a doctor provided the schedule that would fill his days and nights and every moment in between, would prevent his thoughts from lingering or flitting away from his fingertips like errant children, would keep him from pining…and oh, what an appalling thought, to pine. What a stain on his reputation.<p>

He carefully scuffed the snow from his feet before stepping back into the infirmary, dipping his chin in greeting when Elizaveta appeared at his side, clipboard and bandages nearly overflowing from her arms. Matthew was propped up reading on his mountain of pillows as usual, but he immediately shut Arthur's tattered copy of _Sense and Sensibility _when he spotted them drawing nearer. He took off his glasses to wipe the frames on the edge of the sheet and smiled softly.

"Time for fresh bandages?" he asked when they reached his bedside. Arthur nodded and Matthew turned over onto his back, already well-versed in the standard procedure, lying still as they peeled back his hospital gown and immediately set to work on undoing the old gauze, gradually working away the stiffened fabric as gently as possible.

"Dr. Kirkland," he piped up eventually, voice muffled by the pillows. "Did you go to see Alfred off?"

Arthur swallowed, fitting his fingertips under a particularly difficult strip and carefully peeling it away, concentrating on his work so as to maintain flawless nonchalance.

"I did indeed," he replied, "he seemed excited."

Matthew was quiet for a moment. "But…why?"

"Why was he excited?" Arthur shrugged, trying not to crack a smile. "Because he's a hopeless fool, I'd guess. Probably thinks he's some sort of hero, and -"

"No, that's not what I meant," interrupted Matthew, managing to glance up at him. "Why did you go to see him off?"

"Myself?" Arthur deftly snipped the edge of the bandage away and let it flutter to the floor. "As I've said, he's a hopeless fool. I was hoping to knock a little sense into him before he took off to risk his life."

"He might not see any action," mumbled Matthew after a brief pause. "But…even so, I hope he doesn't get into too much trouble out there."

Arthur sighed involuntarily, twirling a strip of gauze around his index finger without realizing he was doing so.

"Yes, so do I," he said softly, "so do I."

"Oh Christ," groaned Matthew, and Arthur jumped away, letting the bandages fall from his fingers in his surprise.

"I'm so sorry, did I hurt you?" He bent back down concernedly over Matthew, who was at that point cradling his head in his hands, but craned his neck upwards again when he heard a stifled giggle from behind. Elizaveta loomed above him, paused in unrolling a fresh strip of gauze, biting down on her lower lip and almost trembling, her cheeks flushed with color, expression curiously triumphant. Arthur stared. Matthew groaned again.

"Jesus, fuck this." And to Arthur's surprise, he rolled across the mattress and bent over the edge of the bed to open the drawer of the nightstand, all the while cursing under his breath in a fashion that contrasted almost comically with his otherwise subdued character. Eventually, he pulled out one of the slender ribbons of the peppermint candy that his mother had sent and grudgingly tossed it to Elizaveta, who caught it with a crow of victory.

"Well damn," he hissed at her, shaking his head exasperatedly, "my fault for thinking the doctor was better than this."

Elizaveta merely cackled and bit down sharply on the edge of the candy while Arthur glanced from one to the other confusedly. When nobody spoke, he finally cleared his throat.

"So terribly sorry to interrupt, but would anyone mind telling me just what has occurred, exactly?"

Matthew and Elizaveta looked at each other for a long moment whilst she licked at the ribbon of candy, after which Matthew seemed to lose his sanity completely.

"My damn brother!" he cried, fisting the sheets. "My goddamn brother, who does he think he is, anyways, full of all kinds of shit with that grin of his and those little suave lines he drops all over the place and -"

"You see, doctor," crowed Elizaveta halfway through the tirade, thrusting the candy into Arthur's face. "I've won the bet!"

" – and really, just waltzing in here and setting his eye on someone and then just…man, how does he do that when he's such an idiot? Damn!" Matthew threw his hands into the air. "My damn brother!"

And with that, he fell silent.

"Terribly sorry," said Arthur after a pause, "but I still have no idea as to what…" He trailed off when Matthew began to glare at him.

"Oh, like hell you don't!"

"Excuse me?"

At that point, Matthew turned his back to them again, and Elizaveta giggled.

"He's just resentful that his brother has a way with the…" She glanced at Arthur curiously, tilting her head to the side. "Well, I suppose in our particular situation we couldn't say _the ladies, _could we?"

Arthur blinked. He swallowed. Finally, he turned on his heel, gesturing down briefly at Matthew.

"I'll leave the rest to you."

And with that, he fled to his office as fast as his legs could carry him.

* * *

><p>Fortunately, Arthur found an enormous pile of paperwork teetering on his desk, which would serve as an enormous help in alleviating the embarrassment that doubtlessly awaited him just outside his office door. He sat down wearily at his desk, beginning to shed his medical coat but stopping with his arms only halfway through the sleeves when he heard something crackle. He bent over the back of the chair and began to fish blindly in the pockets, curious; he was a meticulously neat man and it was unlike him to keep anything but pens in his pockets. His heart stuttered when his fingers brushed something cool and crumpled, and it was with moderate dismay that he extracted the old wrapper of the chocolate bar, the battered foil gleaming dully in the lamplight of his office.<p>

He simply stared at it for a long moment, turning it over in his hands, casting fragments of silver light onto his ceiling. He glanced at the rubbish bin at the far corner of his office. He glanced back at the tiny ball of foil. It still smelled faintly of chocolate.

He swore quietly and tucked it back into his pocket. He turned to his paperwork, reached for the first page, then placed it neatly back atop the stack. He stood up and hung his medical coat carefully over the back of the chair before he went to his drink cupboard and mixed a gin and tonic. He set this back on his desk and then went to the cabinets that lined the walls of the office beneath the heavy wooden bookshelves, counting the doorknobs until he arrived at the fifth door and opened it, tossing away the outdated medical anthologies and finally extracting his enormous old radio. He placed this on the desk next to the gin, sat down, took a bracing sip, and began to fiddle with the dials.

There was little but static for a long time, but Arthur was patient, quite comfortable sitting there sipping his drink and twirling the dials with fingers made deft from years of practice. At one point, he heard a snippet of German crackle over the receiver and considered tuning in more closely, but his knowledge of the language had grown faulty since his school days and he had priorities, after all. Finally, when his drink was nearly reduced to ice and a sliver of lime, he caught it - that soft _allo, allo? – _and smiled.

"_Bonjour," _he said, "_est-ce que c'est la dame que je voulais ? " _

" _Ah, bonjour, monsieur, " _answered a voice, crackling with static._"Je ne sais pas; est-ce que vous vouliez la brunette? " _

"_Non, monsieur, je crois que je voulais la blonde. Est-ce que elle n'est pas disponible ? "_

" _Non, mon ami, elle est disponible…est-ce que vous voudriez parler avec lui ? " _

" _Oui, je le voudrais très bien. Où est-elle ? " _

" _Mais monsieur, elle parle. "_

Arthur positively grinned.

"Bonnefoy, you rogue," he chuckled. "What's the news?'

"Nothing, unfortunately," sighed Francis, his heavy accent weighed yet further down by static. "They fight, we hide, and _you, _my friend, still refuse to pay dear Charles any heed."

Arthur sniffed. "That's Roosevelt talking."

"Well, it would seem the Americans are doing _all _the talking."

It was spoken in jest, but considering his current situation, Arthur couldn't help but feel a bit resentful.

"Perhaps if you hadn't thrown down your arms the moment a German toe edged over your borders - "

"Now, now," interrupted Francis, voice softening. "Petty quarrels are not the purpose of these exchanges, _non?_"

Arthur drained the last of his gin. "I suppose not." He swirled the ice in his glass. "What's your next plan of action, then?"

"We will wait," answered Francis. "The resistance cannot afford to make its move too early."

"Nor too late," reminded Arthur. Francis sighed heavily enough to be detected over the static.

"Indeed, time is of the essence."

They were quiet for a moment, Arthur considering the way the early afternoon sunlight reflected from the ice resting at the bottom of his glass.

"And…how are you, Francis?"

"_Moi?" _A pause. "Well…I am alive, am I not? I am very busy, as well…there is a good deal of work to be done." Another pause. "Too much, in my opinion."

"Any portion of our work is too much," returned Arthur. "And it would seem we are always working."

"How tragic."

Another interval of silence.

"And you, Arthur?"

Arthur was quiet for a moment, considering his answer.

"Worried," he finally said, and thought it to be a very effective reply.

Francis chuckled. "_Pour moi?_"

"Don't flatter yourself," spat Arthur. "_Pour tout, partout, et tout le monde._ "

_Et pour Alfred_, _bien entendu, _his mind ventured, but who was he to say such a thing aloud when he couldn't quite manage to admit it even to himself?

His thoughts were interrupted by the blare of static; he pressed the received close to his ear just in time to hear Francis assure him that everything was alright, _au revoir, _before the signal went dead. He sat back in his chair with a sigh, letting the receiver drop into his lap. How unfortunate to be cut off.

Even so, Arthur was considerably soothed by the conversation, and spent the rest of the afternoon with his paperwork. After he worked his way to the bottom of the stack, he dedicated a moment to rifling through his old anatomy textbooks, seized by a fit of nostalgia brought on by hearing Francis' voice again. Notes scribbled in hasty French littered many of the pages, the wispy script seeming to whisper details about women, gossip, politics, and every once in a while the actual science itself, and Arthur couldn't help but to smile when he stumbled across the _je t'aime _swirled in one corner. Back in their days in medical school, Francis used to tell him so all the time, slurring the words in his ear or against his lips, sometimes painting them down the back of his neck with the reek of red wine.

Their relationship had been a frivolous experience, nothing but weightless words and wandering hands, but even so, Arthur had neither regrets nor shame, and greatly valued the friendship that had flared to life from the ashes of the purely sexual association. He would never admit to such an opinion, but Francis was a talented surgeon and a respectable man, unexpectedly trustworthy and of an intellect that rivaled Arthur's own. The fall of his country had shattered his heart, but he was not one to go nursing wounds and had joined up with the resistance the moment he was aware of its existence. He served as both a resident surgeon and an expert radio coordinator, and kept careful correspondence with Arthur in place of the reluctant British parliament.

Perhaps a sorry substitute, but a correspondence nonetheless.

* * *

><p>Days passed without news of the pilots, and nearly a week later Arthur found himself in much the same position: having just come from a transmission with Francis, an empty glass resting at his elbow. Evening had begun to set in at the edges of the sky, and Arthur was considering mixing another drink when he heard a crisp knock at his door. He went to greet the visitor and found Elizaveta standing at the threshold, smiling brightly up at him. He sighed and gestured for her to enter, grudgingly pulling out a chair out for her and taking his own seat across the desk.<p>

"Good news, doctor," she began when they had settled, but grew immediately distracted by the sight of the radio resting on his desk. "Oh, have you been talking with him?" She leaned forwards to run her fingers over the dusty mahogany casing. "How is he?"

"_Bien,_" replied Arthur with the slightest of smirks, "we've been in consistent contact this entire week."

To his surprise, she giggled at that, leaning back in her chair again and folding one leg over the other. He asked her what was so funny and she waved her hand dismissively, though her smile remained.

"You always try to contact him when you're upset," she said, glancing up at him with a tentative smile. "Look, it's been a week without bad news…it's most likely that nothing is going on at all, so Alfred will be just fine. You shouldn't worry so much."

Arthur considered feigning ignorance, but discovered that he hadn't the energy and sighed, folding his fingers together atop the desk.

"Don't ask the impossible, Elizaveta," he said wearily. "I worry for everything."

"I do believe you're blushing, doctor," she commented. "How sweet."

Arthur glanced up at her sharply. "What's this good news, anyways?"

She laughed and said that Matthew was showing such improvement that he would soon be ready for physical therapy. Even Arthur smiled at this; the boy had been in such poor shape when he arrived that it was truly a testament to his skill that he was already well enough to exercise. Elizaveta easily read his smirk and rolled her eyes.

"Oh, stop."

Arthur chuckled. "Stop what?" He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. "Simply more proof, I suppose…"

"Absolutely hopeless…" Elizaveta's gaze fell on the empty glass sitting beside the radio and she raised an eyebrow. "Doctor, it's not even five o'clock now."

Arthur shrugged. "But somewhere…!"

"Oh dear…" But she was smiling, exasperatedly and extremely fondly. "What are we going to do with you?"

They laughed, Arthur poured a fresh round of drinks, and they both leaned back into their chairs and likewise into each other's conversation. Elizaveta was quite a sharp and gifted doctor despite seeming to prefer to work her skill under the guise of the nurse with the gentle touch, and Arthur enjoyed her company very much. In fact, she was one of the few women he found he could tolerate; though she was really quite beautiful, she never fluttered about or rustled her skirts or batted her eyelashes. She demanded respect and respect she enjoyed, and Arthur trusted her with his patients above anyone else.

They were halfway through their second round of drinks when there came a frantic rapping on the door; Arthur turned the knob to reveal a breathless nurse and the infirmary thrust into chaos. Elizaveta was immediately at his side, straightening her skirt and tucking her hair back behind her ears, and he felt the touch of her hand rest fleetingly on the crook of his arm.

"They're back," she murmured. "We've got our work cut out for us."

He nodded, swallowed the fear that had seized his throat, and straightened the lapels of his medical coat, breathing again with the reassuring sound of that authoritative crack. He saw no glitter of melted glasses, no singed brown leather bomber jacket, and firmly reminded himself of his duty. There were at least six or seven young men on stretchers at that point, their eyelids fluttering and their breath coming and going in ragged gasps, the conscious with their heads balanced on the laps of the nurses as they were offered small drinks of water. Six or seven already, ten empty hospital beds, and who knew how many more waited outside. In the end, Arthur supposed as he snapped on a pair of plastic gloves and hurried over to the injured, there had been a good deal of action, after all.

Most of the boys were victims of burns or gunshot, slipping in and out of consciousness as they blistered and swelled and bled, gritting their teeth when Arthur slipped his fingers quickly but carefully beneath their belts and peeled away their uniforms. Elizaveta bustled about administering morphine as if it were little more potent than candy, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to complain when she allowed her palm to ghost momentarily across the burning cheek of a fitful pilot, not when he saw the lines creasing his forehead lessen beneath the fleeting touch of her fingertips. He merely grumbled and finished tying off the wound at hand before he sent the boy off in the care of the nearest nurse, telling her that he would need surgery come the morning, seeing as the bullet was buried deep into his shoulder.

The hours blurred together and midnight found Arthur collapsed beside Elizaveta, gloves stained with blood and soot, the joints of his fingers aching from so many stitches and knots and jobs so meticulous that they nearly classified as surgery. Every bed was full and some fresh cots had been hastily assembled against the walls, and with quiet finally settled over the infirmary, the nurses floated like crisp pink boats between the great white waves of pillows, linen sheets, and bandaged men. Most of the patients themselves were either asleep or unconscious, very likely lulled away by Elizaveta and her generous syringes of painkiller, but Matthew was still awake, alternating between pretending to finish his current choice of novel and glancing at the closed door to the infirmary.

Arthur knew full well what distracted him, and despite his exhaustion he could taste his heart thudding in his mouth. After what seemed an age, there came a tremulous knock at the door, and though all three of them nearly toppled from their seats in haste and fear and exhilaration, when a nurse admitted the visitor, nobody more than another miscellaneous, weary pilot tumbled through. Arthur sighed, frustrated, before he took a second glance and realized that the boy wasn't unfamiliar. Long brown hair, slender shoulders, soft eyes, an unassuming stature. Arthur blinked and rose from his stool as if in a dream, unaware of the confused expressions of Elizaveta and Matthew.

"Toris," he said smoothly, extending his hand to the boy when he reached him. "How are you? Not injured, I hope."

"Doctor Kirkland," said Toris softly, accepting the handshake but dropping his gaze to his shoes. "No, I can't complain."

Arthur smiled, but the expression never reached the corners of his eyes.

"What good fortune," he managed, though the words had begun to stick in his throat. "Indeed…in that case, what brings you to my office?"

Toris made a curious noise in the back of his throat, and when he finally lifted his gaze there were tears in his eyes. Arthur took an involuntary step back as if the expression had physically struck him, but he was soon rescued by his reputation, his dear reputation, and knew that there was no choice but to maintain his composure. Toris, however, was not constrained by such boundaries, and he wept freely, clutching his bandaged hands to his chest.

"I…I'm sorry…Alfred…he said…we don't…nobody knows," he gasped, "where he…the plane went down, I saw…and…we can't…" His gaze landed on Matthew, who had rushed from his bed to lurch to a stop before them, supporting himself on Arthur's shoulder, and he broke into fresh sobs, nearly doubling over and begging them to forgive him through his tears.

After a long moment Arthur discovered that his voice still existed and coughed once, twice, before he reached out to grip Toris' shoulder, wondering if his hold was firm or if his fingers trembled.

"No, no," he said, and was almost surprised to hear himself speak. "There is nothing to forgive. It is merely…" He glanced back at the infirmary, overflowing with injured men, at Matthew, pale as a sheet and trembling but standing on his own two feet for the first time in more than a month, at Elizaveta, hovering a few paces behind with her hands cupped over her mouth, and swallowed. "It is merely the way of war."

* * *

><p><strong>AN -<strong> Coded conversation between Arthur and Francis:

"_Bonjour, est-ce que c'est la dame que je voulais ?" _Hello, is this the lady I wanted?

" _Ah, bonjour, monsieur. Je ne sais pas est-ce que vous vouliez la brunette? " _Ah, hello, sir. I don't know; did you want the brunette?

"_Non, monsieur, je crois que je voulais la blonde. Est-ce que elle n'est pas disponible ? " _No sir, I do believe that I wanted the blonde. Is she not available?

" _Non, mon ami, elle est disponible…est-ce vous voudriez parler avec lui ? " _No, my friend, she's available…would you like to speak with her?

" _Oui, je le voudrais très bien. __Où est-elle ? " _Yes, I would like that very much. Where is she?

" _Mais monsieur, elle parle. " _But sir, she's speaking.

(My French is a far cry from my Spanish, so I hope this conversation is alright. Corrections welcome!)

**Additional:** _Pour tout, partout, et tout le monde = _for everything, everywhere, and everyone. _Bien entendu = _of course

"**Charles"** of course refers to de Gaulle, the leader of the French Resistance, whom Churchill was prepared to aide until Roosevelt (who had taken a disliking to the revolutionary) put his foot down and gave him an ultimatum: the Americans or the French. Churchill then proceeded to tell de Gaulle exactly this: "Every time we must choose between you and the open sea, we shall always choose the open sea. Every time I must choose between you and Roosevelt, I shall always choose Roosevelt."

Taken verbatim from the pages of _Citizens of London, _my favorite testament to the fact that USUK pretty much actually exists.

**And** the most enormous thank you of all thank yous to Trumpet-Geek, who from this chapter on has been and will be absolutely instrumental in both historical accuracy and plotline. (Francis being a radio expert is all owed to her brilliant mind!) She likes to call herself my research-faerie, which in turn leads her to the conclusion that she must belong to England. Yes, she did force me to say this.

**Also...**to the lovely people whom I met at the convention (I still can't believe that actually happened ahh), if you're reading this...ADSJGHJDKGHDL I hope we can get in touch over facebook soon~

Anyways, **thank you all** a thousand times over for reading – see you same time, same place next week!


	7. Chapter 7

It seemed that Alfred always left Arthur with things to weigh down his pockets. Toris had given them two letters, one addressed to Matthew, the other, Arthur. They were told that Alfred had been planning to send them soon, but hadn't quite gotten the chance. Neither had been opened and the envelope addressed to Arthur rested in the inner pocket of his medical coat. He dared not so much as to look, not so much as to take it out and hold it in his hands, let alone to read it. He had taken to walking and talking and working in a chloroform-like dream from which he felt no desire to wake, and the letter would do little more than serve as a rude reminder of reality. War was war, without exception, he promised himself in his daze, without exception, without exception. Recall your reputation, if you please.

Weeks passed; Arthur wasn't sure how many. Fresh snow fell and stuck to the ground with a vice grip. New pilots flowed through the air base in steady waves, the patterns of which could be easily predicted. Patients grew worse and patients grew better. Arthur tended to them, Arthur sat with Matthew and Elizaveta and talked about nothing for hours, Arthur mindlessly searched for the scratchy _allo, allo _on the radio every day, he pored blindly over old textbooks and documents and newspapers, and when the sun began to set he had a drink, but no more than one because he was somewhat afraid that alcohol would loosen his heart.

Matthew began his physical therapy on wobbling but determined feet. Arthur and Elizaveta preferred to accompany him whenever possible, and they spent hours in the frozen gardens, bundled up to their ears so as not to catch cold, almost laughingly directing his every step. Of course there were official therapeutic procedures involving strange contraptions and breathing exercises, but Matthew so obviously enjoyed the open air, color blooming to his cheeks with the bend of the sky above his head and the freezing breeze at his back, that Arthur more often than not excused him from the standard regimen in favor of going for shaky walks, which grew steadier and steadier as the weeks filtered past. After all, Arthur rationalized with himself, the boy so richly deserved a moment to forget his troubles.

In fact, it was during one of these excursions that Arthur caught the edge of an envelope peeking from the pocket of Matthew's jacket and knew that they labored under the same delusion. While the seal of the letter remained unbroken, reality could be avoided, grief could be postponed, work could be finished. From this understanding came a new sense of companionship, and he and Matthew began to entertain long conversations with the sole purpose of distracting one another.

"Another day like any other," Arthur would remark in the morning, and Matthew would nod, glancing around the infirmary as if there were a proper window nearby instead of the small geometric squares cut high up in the walls.

"I do miss the sunshine," he would admit, indicating that it was then Arthur's turn to nod.

"You never appreciate good sunshine until it's gone," he would agree. "It irritates me so when it's always around, but…"

"Nothing quite like the cold to remind you what you're missing," Matthew would charitably finish his sentence, and Arthur would slowly nod, drumming his fingertips on his chin.

"Nothing quite like it indeed."

Such was their routine. Such was their way of mentioning him; in passing, in metaphor, under the guise of casual conversation. There was no other option. Sometimes Matthew grew completely silent, sometimes Arthur wondered if he thought he should cry more often. Sometimes Arthur wondered if he himself should cry at all. Still they only talked about the weather, about books, about nothing, and they avoided mention of the war at whatever cost. Even Elizaveta dared not interrupt their routine, the dream they were spinning from mindless small talk and coded conversation. She never mentioned the letters, knowing that they would not be forgotten for all they weighed in the pockets of their keepers.

"Will you go outside again today, Matthew?" she would ask, "even if it is terribly cold?"

Of course he would, Matthew always replied, seeing how as long as he wore a thick enough coat the cold wouldn't be a bother, and he wanted to stretch his legs so badly. Arthur would agree and propose that they all bundle up and take a brisk walk around the grounds. What were the cold and grey, he would scoff, to a doctor of his stature? He had a reputation to uphold, he would tell them half-jokingly, and no mere weather condition was capable of changing that.

_Matthew would not sit down. He trembled and paled and clenched and unclenched his fists over and over again, but he would not sit down. He stood at the side of his bed and gazed down at the mess of sheets that he had left behind as if he were a ghost already, numbly observing the places where his heart had beat most frequently, where his blood had flowed hot and strong, where he had breathed and laughed and talked, and where his brother had rested his elbows and fallen asleep. _

_Toris had long since gone, wiping his eyes on the backs of his hands, and the morning pressed against the small infirmary windows, beginning to trace a lattice of light that would spread to pools of winter yellow on the floor by mid-afternoon. Arthur's knuckles still ached. The nurses had begun to stir again, fixing their curls and applying fresh lipstick like birds ruffling their feathers. Elizaveta had given up on her attempts to coax Matthew back into bed and was instead standing next to him gazing down at the sheets, occasionally brushing at her eyes with the ball of her palm. _

_Arthur felt the exhaustion in his bones but couldn't bring himself to depart from his clipboard. Had it not been so early he might have fixed himself a drink; probably gin, but perhaps whiskey, or bourbon, he mused before realizing that it hardly mattered. Matthew crumbled into sobs not long after ten o'clock, and Elizaveta was finally able to push him onto the bed and draw his face into her breast, tears slipping down her cheeks as she ran her fingers through his hair over and over again. _

_Arthur took his clipboard to his office and tried to remind himself that they were nothing special, that war was capable of destroying anyone, that self-pity would be hypocrisy, that his reputation was hanging by a shred of indifference. He was one in a thousand identical cases. A thousand girls had wrung handkerchiefs between their delicate hands, a thousand girls had wasted nights away poring over single syllables scribbled across garishly yellow military-issued parchment, a thousand girls had donned their finest black skirts and jackets and poured dark veils over their pretty faces and wrapped their arms around broken would-have-been mother in laws and wept rivers, useless testaments of devotion and grief running hot down their lovely cheeks. Arthur knew that tears would do nothing; in fact, he knew that nothing would do anything._

_War was war, without exception. Arthur collapsed at his desk and pressed his face into his hands. Without exception; one death was nothing special._

* * *

><p>One day in early February they walked for several hours without having to stop so that Matthew could have a moment to rest. Arthur smiled for him, though he felt that the accomplishment was somewhat ironic and struggled to keep his thoughts from straying during the entire rest of the journey back to the infirmary. When they had returned, he immediately shut himself away in his office, and though the sun had yet to set, he mixed a drink, took out the old radio, settled before his desk, and set himself to finding that elusive signal.<p>

The interval of static was discouragingly long, and Arthur was on the point of resigning his efforts when he caught a snippet of a French accent and twirled the dial violently to focus the signal. From what he could hear of the conversation, the men were arguing; the voices weren't unfamiliar and after a long moment of listening, Arthur cleared his throat.

"_Pardonnez-moi, s'il vous plaît. Je voudrai parler avec une dame._ "

Silence fell for a long moment before someone coughed and asked him _quelle dame, monsieur? _

_La blonde, _answered Arthur, _comme toujours. _

There was another long interval of silence before there came a stuttered _oui _and the sound of chairs scraping and men rustling about filled the receiver. Arthur was considerably perplexed, but waited patiently until there was a rush of static and then finally the familiar murmur of heavily-accented English lilting over the connection.

"_Bonjour, mon cher," _sighed Francis, "how are you?"

"Fine," replied Arthur shortly. "What was that about?'

Francis was quiet for a long moment. "I'm sorry?"

The _argument_, muttered Arthur, don't play fool with me, you know it won't work. Francis sighed again, melodramatically, and Arthur could easily picture him running a hand slowly through his hair and cradling his temple against his fingertips.

"There has been…a predicament." He paused. "I will explain more to you in a moment, I promise. You have my word as a Frenchman."

Arthur grumbled, but didn't protest. Francis' voice sounded exhausted, ragged, feelings which Arthur understood unfortunately well, and for all his curiosity he couldn't repress his sympathy.

"_Et comment vas-tu ?" _he asked, drawling the sentence out in an exaggerated English accent for the benefit of comedy, and smiled faintly when Francis chuckled.

"As fine as you are, I would say," he answered, "however much that may be."

Arthur let out an appreciative bark of laughter. "Not very."

Francis made a soft noise of agreement, scarcely audible above the speaker, and the static stretched between them for a long moment.

"I fear that we will miss the correct time," confessed Francis eventually."The men fight amongst themselves over the slightest things. Sometimes it feels as if we were entirely alone, without hope of rescue or recovery." He paused. "I cannot help but to fear that the resistance will fail, and that France will be lost forever."

Arthur clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth softly. "However it may seem, England has not forgotten you," he said. "I cannot believe that will come to pass."

Francis was quiet, then he exhaled audibly.

"Thank you," he murmured, "I do hope you're right."

"I'm always right," returned Arthur immediately, "you should know that by now."

Francis laughed freely and Arthur grinned, lifting his drink to take a bracing sip. "Now, frog," he said around the rim of the glass, "tell me about this predicament of yours."

He was met by static for a long moment before Francis cleared his throat. He could be heard shifting in his chair, and Arthur imagined him fiddling with his collar, immaculately pressed as it always was in whatever condition.

"Well, Arthur…" he finally said. "You may be more involved than you think."

Arthur blinked and remained silent, a tacit request to continue. Francis sighed, and he must have been leaning heavily into the receiver, because the clarity of his voice sharpened abruptly.

"Tell me, Arthur…what does the name Jones mean to you?"

* * *

><p><em>The Frenchman – still nameless, still marked only by an accent, still refusing to identify himself despite his meticulous care - would be angry when he woke from his nap. Bed rest was the key, he had cooed over and over again, bed rest, dear boy, bed rest. Don't you dare lift your head from that pillow, he had warned, now tip your chin back, that's right, drink this. And then the world would soften, a gentle darkness swallowing up the feverish heat and the scratchy throat and the feel of callused fingertips stroking at his hair. Of course pain returned with the morning, as did the violent thirst, the dizzying fever, the blood caking the bandages, but still the world remained blurry. <em>

_And the Frenchman, his apparent caretaker, was marked in equally indistinct lines. There existed the purple smudges of what must have been a violet dress shirt, the haze of gold that was perhaps hair, the soft chuckle that scratched like an old film, and one unabashed look of surprise and sympathy that had been admittedly more defined than the other details, but still so vague. There was no memory of what had brought the expression about; perhaps something that had strayed from his lips in the delirium of pain and fever, perhaps the realization that he – the patient - was going to die? _

_But Alfred couldn't bring himself to belief that was true, not when he was suddenly so conscious, so aware of his own heartbeat, the rush of his own breathing, and lastly of the presence of his nameless caretaker, draped in a chair at the other side of the room. He gingerly lifted himself onto his elbows – this was what would cause the Frenchman anger – and though a ripple of pain left him gasping, he felt the mattress beneath him and the sunlight on his cheek and tasted cigarette smoke in the air and knew he was very much alive. _

"_Bed rest," murmured the Frenchman without opening his eyes. "You are so terribly sick." _

_Alfred coughed and tasted blood and dust. "No shit," he managed through his grimace, "but I'll take my chances."_

_The Frenchman slit open one eye with a smirk. From what Alfred could perceive, he sighed, ran a hand through his hair – yes, that was the golden haze – and stood, rummaging in one pocket for a cigarette and balancing it between his lips as he spoke. _

"_Well, you've got spirit," he admitted, coming to the bedside, exhaling a slender stream of smoke. "It's amazing that you can even speak, let alone sit up." He glanced at Alfred's position somewhat amusedly. "To an extent, that is." _

_They were silent until the Frenchman eventually asked if Alfred wasn't going to self-righteously demand to be told where he was, and who this mysterious foreigner at his bedside happened to be. Alfred opened his mouth, leaned over the side of the bed, and retched spectacularly. _

_When had finished, the Frenchman let the ash and glowing embers of his cigarette fall into the puddle of blood and vomit. Alfred was still gagging from the taste of the stuff in his mouth, and he accepted the cup of water that was soon brought to him with a moan of gratitude, though he was forced to drink slowly. _

"_For all intents and purposes, my name is la blonde," murmured the Frenchman as he stroked at Alfred's hair, crooning softly in the back of his throat between sentences. "But I would like that we were friends, so you may call me Bonnefoy, if you wish. In any case, welcome to France, Alfred Jones…" He slipped something cool around Alfred's neck; his dog tags, scorched but intact, clinking softly as they settled against the bandaged valley of his chest. "You are as safe now as any other free man in this godforsaken country." _

A broken leg. A shattered collarbone. Three snapped fingers. A fractured bone in his left arm; he didn't recognize the medical name. Blood and stiff bandages and the daze of morphine. Countless gashes and bruises and lumps rising every which way. And burns, burns, burns, woven together like a tapestry across his back and shoulders. Flip him over and you could read him like a book. The roar of gunpowder in the knotted skin stretched across his shoulder blades, the explosion of heat in the scars and singed gold at the back of his neck, the scream of the shattering plane and the scorching friction scrawled across his chest and etched deep into the palms of his hands, and then the sky seemed to swallow him whole and the chapter ended.

And still the world was no longer anything more than a blur of lines and figures and hushed talk, but he would not be stopped by such trivial matters. His muscles screamed and his joints sobbed and he himself groaned like a dying man, but he clung fast to the stolen crutches until he could throw himself against the door and pound his fists against the tiny square window with what remained of his strength. He had been improving, Bonnefoy had said so himself, he had been lying still and accepting his medicine and not trying to pull any stunts, and he was finally grateful because his blows rang out clear and strong.

The doorknob clicked and Bonnefoy appeared in the doorway, a mixture of anger, amusement and poorly concealed affection crossing his face at the sight of Alfred half-supporting himself on the wall, damning his name in the loudest voice possible of a man in his condition.

Eventually, Bonnefoy sighed and lifted his hand. Alfred could see a group of men over his shoulder, all craning their necks to get a proper look at the intruder.

"You will sit quietly," ordered Bonnefoy shortly. "You _will not _speak. You will not fidget. You will not complain. You will make no noise whatsoever. In fact, you will not even so much as exist until I give you the order to do so," he paused for a long moment, fixing Alfred with a glare. "Understood?"

Alfred realized what he was being told and elation bloomed in his chest, but he remembered himself soon enough to fight down a cheer and instead replied with nothing more than the tiniest of nods.

"Understood."

_Three weeks. Bonnefoy saw his panic and immediately grabbed him by the shoulders – gently, careful not to upset the new bandages – and shook him once, twice, tried to loosen his fingers from where they were twisted into his hair, to soothe the erratic heaving of his chest. Three weeks since they had found him, and who knew how much longer since he had gone down, blacked out. To the rest of the world, Alfred F. Jones was very likely a dead man. _

_He swallowed down the rush of bile that had risen in his throat and finally dropped his hands back to the sheets. Bonnefoy relaxed his hold and leaned away, sympathy crinkling his brow. _

"_Alfred, we - "_

"_Christ," groaned Alfred, his resolve crumbling anew; he buried his face in his hands. "Oh Christ." _

_He smelt rather than heard Bonnefoy sigh, almost tasted the rush of cigarette smoke against his cheek. _

"_I would suppose that there were people awaiting your return..?"_

_Alfred could only nod. There in his mind was his baby brother, smiling softly at him and telling him not to worry, he would be just fine. Matthew must be nearly recovered by then, he thought for a moment, before he gasped faintly and pressed his face deeper into his palms. No, he told himself, no – he knew what his mind was going to propose next. He had been so dedicatedly avoiding those thoughts, drowning himself in fever and morphine and the occasional unsteady journey to the restroom, but in that moment his efforts crumbled and in a single explosion of crackling medical coat and crystal gin glasses and cynicism and egotism and eyes flashing jealous green and slender fingers dancing down his spine and smirks pressing against his chin, cheeks, forehead, mouth, with everything executed so much in his typical grandiose style, Arthur materialized._

_It occurred to Alfred that he had never sent the letters. He latched onto Bonnefoy with a grip that would later leave a pattern of bruises circling his wrist. _

"_He has to know," he cried, and his voice no longer trembled. "I won't have him sad for my sake. He has to know, he has to know. I…I have to get back. To both of them, but especially to him. He can't believe I'm dead, he can't. Three weeks, three weeks or more, Christ, a month, oh. He can't forget. That'd be just like him, but I'll never let him forget. I have to get back." His voice was strong now, serious, rejuvenated by duty. "I have to get back." _

_Bonnefoy blinked. "But to whom?" _

_This time it was Alfred's turn to grip his shoulders, dragging them so close that their noses nearly brushed._

"_Arthur," he breathed. "You must take me back to Arthur Kirkland."_

* * *

><p>It was all Arthur could do to cling onto the receiver. After a long moment of this, a loud clattering noise and the distinct sound of movement crackled over the transmission; Francis swore quietly, there came the shrill grate of a chair against concrete, and then a flurry of curses and raised voices. A loud crash led Arthur to assume that the radio itself was being quite badly jostled; he somehow managed to draw the receiver a few inches further away from his ear, listening helplessly.<p>

_Sacre bleu, watch what you are doing with those crutches!_

Arthur might have laughed, but his voice was nowhere to be found, lost somewhere in his throat or perhaps amidst the erratic thud of his heartbeat.

_Christ, boy, you are going to take my head off!_

The receiver squealed; someone had snatched it up, someone with clumsy hands and little experience.

"Like hell if I give a sweet damn!" Scratchy, even if shouted. "Your foofy codes and protocol can both suck my…oh, oh no you don't!" And the receiver screeched again, as if someone were wrestling with it. "Fucking frogs…should be singing our praises…oh, right, shit…hello?"

Arthur clutched at the receiver. His head ached. His glass of gin was empty. He soon deduced that he was surely forgetting himself in a drunken dream. That voice belonged to the boy who had crashed into his orderly infirmary and disregarded every single rule and regulation imaginable just to breathe the same air as someone he loved. That boy was lost. War was war, without exception. Surely it was a drunken dream. That one glass of gin had probably tripled, or quintupled, or worse, or better. His vision blurred. He couldn't speak.

"Arthur? Hey, Arthur?" A pause. "Do you think he hung up?"

Words, words, words! What was a sentence, what was a phrase, no…nothing more than a simple greeting would suffice, if only Arthur could recall any! What qualified as a simple greeting? First, he thought, to start with the basics. Was it morning, afternoon, evening, midnight, dawn? Too complicated, he realized with a jolt of panic, far too complicated. A new plan was necessary. Perhaps he could grunt. A grunt would at least affirm his presence. Yes, a grunt, he decided dizzily, a grunt and nothing more would be perfectly fine, but still his throat would not comply. His mind dared not suggest that everything was anything more than a ruse, a dreadfully cruel ruse. Francis was surely toying with him, or perhaps he was insane, perhaps the repressed grief had finally broken like a wave and he had been swept away into delirium and gin and tonic.

"Is anyone there?"

And as if trying to swallow back down a jagged edge of glass that was pushing up his throat, Arthur groaned. A little gasp soon crackled across the transmission.

"Hey, he made a sound! Or at least I think so..." Another pause. "But maybe I just imagined it…Arthur? Was that you?"

Arthur promptly dropped the receiver. He scrambled for his gin and tipped back the glass only to be met with nothing but ice; he coughed in surprise, nearly inhaling an entire cube and slamming the glass back down on the desk with a strangled gasp. The receiver dangled off the edge of the desk, squealing its displeasure at being so rudely manhandled, and Arthur swallowed, as if he could force down and bury the heavy thud of his heart, before he dared to even touch it.

Slowly, with the surreal movement of a dreaming man and his throat still aching from the ice cube and the insistent rhythm of his heartbeat, he lifted it to his ear.

"Doctor Arthur Kirkland speaking."

Nothing but static for a moment, then a cry of joy, breathtakingly real, unmistakable. The sound could belong to no other man, and the force of Arthur's sigh sent him billowing back into his chair, his entire body going limp except for his hands, which were wrapped so closely around the receiver that his fingertips burned.

"Am I a fool," he gasped, "for actually believing that you, of all people, would finally leave me be?"

That high clear laugh thundered over the static and Arthur closed his eyes, shaking his head from side to side slowly, incredulously.

"My god," he whispered, "I thought you were dead. Alfred, I truly…" The words were sticking in his throat, but he hadn't the energy to feel humiliated. "I truly thought you were dead."

A soft chuckle came over the transmission.

"Then you are a fool, Arthur," replied Alfred with an ecstatic sort of tenderness to his voice, "for thinking I would let you get away that easy."

Arthur tried to laugh, but perhaps something closer to a sob emerged.

"You're a lunatic," he moaned. "A lunatic, a lunatic, and I…I thought you had…we all thought…that you were dead…that you were never coming back…that…we were so…I was…"

Alfred made a soft hushing sound and Arthur resigned himself to simply pressing his cheek against the receiver, weaving the radio cord slowly between the fingers of his other hand.

"Don't forget how stubborn I am, Arthur."

Arthur gave a chuckle that quivered with affection. He heard Alfred take a long wavering breath over the static and thought he detected the sound of a heavy swallow.

"I could never just give up," murmured Alfred. "Not when I still hadn't gotten back to where I had to be."

"War doesn't…" Arthur nearly gasped. "War hardly cares for such sentimentality."

"But I do," replied Alfred immediately, "and here I am."

"Fool," whispered Arthur, cradling the receiver closer still. "Thick stubborn yank."

"Your thick stubborn yank," countered Alfred, and continued before Arthur could protest, his voice hitching every few syllables. "We'll see each other soon, Arthur."

Arthur couldn't help but to sigh somewhat disbelievingly, and he heard Alfred swallow heavily.

"We really will," he said after a moment, throatily. "I swear. After all…" His voice was abruptly strained by emotion and all the more lovely for it. "If I'm not with you, I'm still not where I need to be."

* * *

><p><strong>AN <strong>– Cannot prolong absence of central character. Hurts word count almost as much as hurts heart.

**Huge thanks** to the amazing Trumpet-Geek and her extraordinary powers of research and fact-checking.

**Also, I don't know if any of you guys remember** the first time I tried tumblr, but…it was a terrific failure wrought with noobery and reblog spam. Well, in search of redemption, I've opened a fanfic blog for updates, drabbles, things about writing in general, the very occasional reblog, and chilling with the best fandom ever. So…if…uh…if uh…if any of you guys might like to maybe follow me maybe…the URL is my penname, and the link is up on my profile. There's not much there yet but um yeah hi eek.

Anyways, **thank you all from the bottom of my heart** for reading! We've nearly hit the halfway point on this fic, and none of it would have been possible without all of you wonderful people and your lovely support.

Until next week!


	8. Chapter 8

March had just broken frigid and windy over the countryside when a crisply dressed man arrived in the infirmary with a telegram for Matthew. He had been selected to receive a medal for his services to the Royal Canadian Air Force. There would be no ceremony, no fanfare, no pomp and circumstance, or at least not for some time. The officer would arrive in a few days with the box and that would be that.

The nurses were overjoyed, bubbling over with giggles and wandering fingers and trembling curls, but Matthew frowned when he first read the telegram.

"I'm not a real hero," he replied when asked to explain. Arthur blinked and asked why not. Matthew sighed, tilting his head so that his hair spilled over the back of the pillow.

"What have I done?" he asked exhaustedly. "I was shot. Okay. Some Italians found me. Okay. They shipped me back here. Okay. You made me better. Okay. Where, tell me…" He turned to Arthur with an unsettlingly sharp expression. "Do you see that _I've_ done anything?"

Arthur blinked again, swallowed, opened his mouth, and shut it again, overwhelmed by a strange combination of admiration and sympathy. Matthew curled his fingers into the sheets.

"Whereas my brother…" he murmured, gazing down into his lap. "My brother is still out there. He's even helping them, isn't he? The men who found him…" He bit down on his lower lip. "After everything, he's helping them."

Arthur sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, lacing his fingers together in his lap. "Well, I don't know how much Alfred is actually doing," he said, "he's still recovering, after all. And of course, they're trying to find a way to get him back home." He paused, realizing his mistake. "Ah, here. Back here, that is. But that's beside the point. He's only telling them what he's heard of the German movements. It's probably not even anything new to their ears. And besides, it's not as if he were fighting for them or anything."

"We're all fighting on the same side," said Matthew unexpectedly. "We're all fighting to keep freedom around a little longer. But Britain and America are fighting for them. They wouldn't have a chance without us."

Arthur tilted his head to the side curiously, somewhat tempted to ask what that statement had to do with the subject at hand.

"I suppose not," he said instead, noncommittally.

They were quiet for a moment until Matthew sighed exasperatedly and kicked away the sheets, wincing as he pulled at an old wound. Arthur shifted forwards worriedly but was batted away with a glare.

"We're all fucking heroes," Matthew growled. "Don't bother giving me a goddamn medal for it."

* * *

><p><em>They wouldn't believe him until they were brought to the radio themselves, at which point Elizaveta burst into tears and Matthew went pale again, though this time a tremulous smile quavered on his lips. <em>

"_It can't be," he whispered, and Arthur wondered somewhat warily if he himself had sounded so distraught and overjoyed in the same breath when he had first heard Alfred laugh again. A moment passed and Matthew wiped frantically at the corner of his eye, his smile threatening to overtake his face. _

"_Jesus Christ, Alfred…" _

_Elizaveta blew her nose in the background. _

_Matthew talked for a long while, occasionally giving a watery laugh or closing his eyes against tears with an expression of impossible relief. Eventually, however, he turned in the armchair and offered the receiver to Arthur, almost smirking up at him. _

"_He wants to talk to you." _

_Arthur struggled not to smile and accepted the receiver again, turning so that Elizaveta couldn't see how he cradled it between his shoulder and neck as though it were the most fragile thing in the world. The last syllables of a conversation were dying out over the static, and after a moment Alfred's bright voice returned. _

"_Aren't you gonna ask me how?" _

_Arthur smiled and rolled his eyes as if Alfred could see him. "Somehow I doubt that you're entirely sure of that yourself." _

_Alfred laughed. "But I told you already…persistence!" _

"_Bullshit." Arthur realized with a mixture of annoyance and gratitude that Matthew and Elizaveta had since tiptoed away; he settled into his armchair, the wood groaning softly beneath his weight. "What happened?"_

_He could imagine Alfred shrugging, could easily picture the way he would bite down on his lower lip and lift his eyes to the ceiling uncertainly. _

"_I woke up and then I blacked out and then I woke up and then I was with that Bonnefoy dude -"_

"_Francis," said Arthur. _

"_Oh, is that his name? Well anyways, then I kept waking up and blacking out for a long time. Then I sat up. Then Bonnefoy…Francis…told me I had been there for a long time. Then I asked to be taken back to you. Then I broke into the radio station. And here we are."_

"_You…broke into the…" _

"_I think Francis wanted to talk to you without me there." Alfred laughed loudly. "Like he was really going to get away with that! Also, there are a bunch of other French dudes in here who don't speak English and they didn't look very happy to see me when he let me in. Maybe this was supposed to be confidential."_

"_I doubt it," sighed Arthur. "The French are simply idiots."_

_Alfred laughed again and Arthur closed his eyes, torn between wanting to capture the sound forever after feeling the terror that was to think he would have to survive without it and telling Alfred that it was causing him a throbbing headache._

"_But Alfred," he murmured after a moment. "Your injuries..?" _

_Alfred inhaled audibly and Arthur imagined a crease appearing between his brows, how he would run his hand through his hair once or twice and adjust his glasses across the bridge of his nose._

"_Nothing much, really," he said finally, and his voice sounded strange, more highly pitched than usual. "Just some burns and broken bones…it isn't anything that Francis can't fix. And I can walk on crutches," he added hastily, finishing the sentence with a shrill chuckle. "I'll be fine." _

_Arthur wove the radio cord around his index finger pensively. Alfred was a dreadful liar, but he was alive, certainly alive enough to break into a radio control room, and Arthur saw no point in pressing him further, not when there was such an undertone of pain so sharply evident beneath his words._

"_I'm glad, love," he said quietly. "What are you going to do now?" _

"_Now?" Alfred sounded relieved, but perhaps Arthur was merely imagining it. "Wait until they can get me back to you, of course."_

_Arthur resisted a tender smile in favor of rational thought. "And how do they plan to do that?" _

"_Bonnefoy…Francis…said something about waiting for the right time, and -"_

_Arthur interrupted with a snort. "You'll never get anywhere unless you pressure them. Frenchmen are nothing if not reluctant creatures, and will wait forever if allowed." _

"_Well, they say the journey will be hard on me in this condition…" replied Alfred hesitantly, and Arthur remembered that he was in the same room as a few of those reluctant creatures as they spoke. _

"_It will be hard in whatever condition," he countered nevertheless, "and you need superior medical care. Francis is without question an extremely talented surgeon, but he hasn't the same technologies at his disposal as I do." Suddenly his voice dropped, and he found himself whispering without meaning to, as if he were hovering at Alfred's ear instead of the receiver._

"_Be stubborn, love," he murmured, with more tenderness than he would have thought possible of his own heart. "Please be stubborn, and come home to me sooner."_

"Alfred, _mon cher, _at some point you will have to lie still."

Alfred turned his cheek against the pillow to cast a glare up at Francis, who was paused with a length of old bandage stretched between his hands, one eyebrow raised in a mixture of affection and exasperation.

"You're babying me," he mumbled into the pillow. "I'm almost better."

Francis snorted and gave a gentle tug on the end of the bandages; Alfred groaned inadvertently as a brief splinter of pain arched through his stomach.

"Fuck you," he hissed through gritted teeth, eyes watering. "That's playing dirty."

Francis chuckled softly, touched his knuckle momentarily to Alfred's cheek, and sat down at the foot of the bed, letting the bandages puddle in his lap for the time being.

"Forgive me, darling," he said amusedly, "but I'm afraid you won't be…_better…_for quite some time."

"I fought my damn way into that radio room," growled Alfred. "I think that -"

"You've made yourself worse in the process," interrupted Francis, leaning over him to get a proper look at his back, frowning at the tapestry of burns, some of the wounds freshly opened and ringed with caked blood. "You truly are a fool."

Alfred sighed and pressed his face deep into the pillow, knotting his fingers into the sheets.

"I wasn't going to just sit by while you phoned up Arthur without me…"

He heard Francis sigh and tasted the slightest trace of cigarette smoke in the air.

"He certainly takes a hold of you, doesn't he?" he murmured, and Alfred turned his face again, surprised by the abruptly wistful note in his voice. "Such an arresting man…"

Alfred blinked. "Don't tell me you're talking about…"

"Arthur?" Francis smiled and gave the slightest nod. "He and I have quite the history, you know."

Alfred tried to sit up, but Francis chuckled and pushed him back down gently, clicking his tongue disapprovingly against the roof of his mouth.

"Don't raise your hackles, boy," he said laughingly. "This aforementioned history has long since come to a close. He is yours for the taking."

Alfred snorted. "I don't think that Arthur is _anyone's _for the _taking._"

Francis tipped his head back with a peal of laughter and ruffled Alfred's bangs when he had snapped back forwards again.

"True, true…" he chuckled. "Or at least he would deny such a thing to his grave."

Even Alfred laughed at that, the sound emerging low and nostalgic from the back of his throat. "You've got that right…" He dropped his gaze back to the pillow, wishing he would be permitted to sit up; it was strange to talk to someone without being able to meet their eyes. "Francis, I…"

"You want to get back," murmured Francis, and Alfred felt his hand in his hair again, fingertips dry and callused and smelling faintly of rose perfume against his forehead. "I know."

"Please, soon…" mumbled Alfred. "I need it to be soon."

Francis sighed, fingers paused in their rhythm through his hair.

"But Alfred, we still don't know what's happened with your -"

"I don't give a damn about that!" Alfred cried, lifting himself onto his elbows; Francis didn't bother to push him back down again, his brow instead crinkling with sympathy. Alfred felt sick to see such concern.

"You're wearing a blue shirt today, navy blue," he shouted, "probably silk, and it's very nice!"

Francis was quiet for a long moment.

"It's purple," he finally said, "dark purple. And it's stained…" He gestured to his chest. "…right here, from where you bled on me a bit."

Alfred swallowed, stunned for a long moment before he remembered himself.

"Well fucking excuse me, then," he spat. "And this hardly means that I can't -"

"We are _trying, _Alfred," said Francis, and his voice was suddenly firm, finally irritated. Alfred bit down on his lower lip, curling his fists deeper into the sheets. "I promise you that we are trying."

Alfred swallowed, annoyed that contrition had risen in his throat, and sighed.

"I know," he muttered. "I'm sorry. I'll…I'll be still now."

Francis murmured a _merci _and returned to slowly unwinding the bandages, his fingers ghosting over the knotted wounds every so often, leaving little pinpricks of pain in their wake. Alfred gritted his teeth and buried his face in the pillow, infuriated that Francis had been right, but resigned to submission beneath his care.

"The shirt is indeed silk, you know," said Francis at one point, almost conversationally, as he let several loops of bloodstained gauze flutter to the floor. "But I always wear silk, so I fear that I cannot truly credit you for that observation, _mon cher._"

Alfred desperately wanted to kick him, but resisted the urge because he had promised Arthur that he would get back to him soon, and good soldiers stuck to their words.

* * *

><p>The medal arrived in the morning, when the bustle of the infirmary was at its peak, but Arthur and Elizaveta managed to break away from their work to meet the officer at the foot of Matthew's bed. He was a different man from before, wearing a stately uniform that glittered with medals and a rainbow of ribbons. He carried a small wooden box in one hand and tipped his cap to Elizaveta with the other, revealing a crop of distinguishing silver hair. Matthew hadn't put down his book and Arthur was torn between pride and the urge to chastise him.<p>

"Pilot," said the officer in a distinctly American accent; perhaps he was from New York, Arthur wondered, or even further north. "Congratulations."

Matthew finally shut his book and placed it on the bedside table, taking his time to straighten the stack of volumes before he turned back with a disconcertingly even expression.

"Thank you," he said softly, extending his hand to take the box, but the officer opened it and took out the medal himself, reaching out to loop it around Matthew's neck.

"No, soldier, thank you," he said as he let the heavy disc of metal fall into the valley of Matthew's chest, where it nestled immediately into the fabric of his hospital gown. "You've done a great service to your country."

For a moment Arthur was terrified that Matthew was going to contradict that statement, but instead he merely shut his eyes and nodded, reaching to his chest to run his index finger along the etchings on the medal as if trying to memorize them. The officer stood there for a moment longer, looking vaguely confused, before he tipped his hat to Elizaveta again and turned to leave, setting the other nurses to fluttering as he went. The moment he was gone, Matthew hissed and tore the medal from around his neck, letting it fall heavily into his lap.

"You should be proud," said Elizaveta mildly, though she was wringing her hands together. Matthew sighed, tipping his head back against the pillow.

"I don't know," he murmured. "I honestly don't feel like I have anything to be proud of."

"You survived," said Arthur before he could catch himself. "That's something."

Matthew turned to him dubiously, and he shrugged.

"Hey, you've been through a lot," he said, rather weakly, and Matthew met his gaze, again with that disconcertingly even expression. After a long moment, Arthur finally tore himself away with a heavy sigh, knowing full well what sort of thoughts had been tacitly implied between them.

"Look," he mumbled. "We'll get him back."

Matthew bit down on his lower lip. "He's going through more than I ever will."

Arthur swallowed, but eventually nodded, running a hand exhaustedly through his hair. "But we'll get him back," he said, more firmly. "I won't rest until I've got him back."

"Me neither," said Matthew immediately. "And I swear that he'll come back to see his brother strong again, walking, running…I swear."

Arthur blinked before he reached out to grip Matthew firmly by the shoulder, letting the slightest of smiles betray the sudden rush of affection he felt for the boy.

"It would seem," he murmured, "that his brother is already strong enough."

* * *

><p>Francis radioed later on that day with the claim of good and bad news. Arthur raised an eyebrow dubiously and leaned back in his armchair, resting his heels on his desk. He scrambled back into an upright position when Francis announced that they were going to move.<p>

"The entire establishment?" he gasped, nearly upsetting his drink in surprise. Francis chuckled scratchily. Not the establishment, but all of the men inside; it was necessary to relocate to a more centralized area, closer to Paris, despite the danger. All of the men, Francis repeated, all of the men would be going. Arthur blinked, realizing what this entailed with an unpleasant turn in his stomach.

"Ah…" he murmured, "what's the good news?"

Francis laughed outright and said that he had neither announced the good nor the bad. He paused a moment, probably running a hand through his hair or fixing his collar, and then replied that the good was that the technologies available at their designated new location would most likely be able to transport Alfred back to England. Arthur tasted his heart in his mouth. And the bad?

"The journey will be dangerous," sighed Francis, "especially for a man in his condition. I cannot say what we will encounter. We are very good at what we do, so it is highly probable that we will slip past unnoticed, but in the likelihood of an emergency…"

"I understand," said Arthur, with more conviction than he felt. "Do what you have to."

"Thank you, Arthur," said Francis with a rare undertone of warmth to his voice, and it occurred to Arthur with no small measure of surprise that perhaps he had been asking permission. How unusually considerate, he thought, given that there seemed to be no option but to relocate the base. How unusually considerate, indeed.

"Of course," he murmured, twisting the radio cord around his index finger. "May I speak with him for a moment, however?"

"Alfred?" The sound of a chair grating against concrete filled the gap of static. "The boy is resting at the moment, but if you would like, I will wake him."

Arthur shook his head against the receiver. "No, please don't trouble him. But…" He paused. "If you could…tell him I called, and that I…that I…I need him to behave and listen to you so that he returns safely…and…"

The static stretched on between them for a long moment.

"And..?" prompted Francis, and Arthur could picture his expression – amused, terribly smug, half-shaven as always.

"Never mind," he managed hurriedly. "That's all. Thank you."

Francis chuckled softly and ended the connection.

* * *

><p><em>The sunlight dripped over the house like thick yellow paint. Their mother's skirts were painted in crisp brushstrokes of rose, rustling faintly as she rocked on the porch, and their father's laugh (which would later become almost unheard as his marriage soured and the family savings began to run dry), not the last rays of the setting sun, must have been what lent the golden tint to the portrait. Matthew's knee ached faintly and there was a considerable lump developing at the back of his head, but he and Alfred squealed with laughter as they rolled through the dust and chased each other through around the trunks of the wide oak trees that grew in their yard. <em>

"_Betcha can't catch me!" screamed Alfred as he latched onto the nearest trunk and began to scrabble his way up, ignoring his mother's halfhearted call to be careful. Matthew wrinkled his nose. He wasn't fond of climbing, but as the younger sibling it was his duty to prove his bravery, however foolhardy it may be. Alfred had already found a suitable perch at the wide crook of a lower branch when his younger brother first began the ascent, digging his fingernails into the bark as if doing so would assure his safety. _

"_So slow!" taunted Alfred, his grin and eyes glinting down from the murk of the leaves. "Come on, Matt, hurry up!"_

"_I'm going!" managed Matthew through gritted teeth, wrenching himself up another few feet, heels scrabbling against the sides of the trunk. "Cool it, would ya?"_

_He heard Alfred chuckle amidst the rustling of the leaves. "Hurry up, hurry up," he began to sing, dreadfully off-key. "Hurry up or you're a baby!"_

_That did it, and with a gasp Matthew clawed his way up to the lowest branch to sit beside his elder brother, immediately pummeling his fists into his sides. Alfred merely laughed and ruffled his hair. _

"_Congratulations," he said cheerfully, "but you're still a baby." _

_Matthew let out a cry of indignation and Alfred snickered. _

"_Come on, Matt," he grinned, and pointed upwards through the trembling leaves, their veins marked out clearly by the late-afternoon sunlight. "Race you to the top!"_

_And before Matthew could protest he was off, the backs of his mud-stained trainers and the glint of his glasses (newly-acquired; he loathed them) flashing at him as he shimmied from branch to branch._

"_Four eyes!" shouted Matthew feebly; all he received for his trouble was a faint chuckle from somewhere above. Well, now there was no other option, he figured unhappily. As the younger sibling such was his duty to follow, lest he should be relentlessly referred to as a chicken for the greater part of his childhood. And so, he gripped onto the bark again, grateful that the branches grew thick from the trunk, rarely with gaps between them that a small boy couldn't easily breach. _

_He caught up with Alfred, who had obviously stopped to wait for him despite his taunts, halfway to the top, and they continued on together. The branches grew steadily thinner and every once in a while they trembled beneath their weight and Matthew had to bite down sharply on his lower lip to keep from whimpering. Alfred, however, assured him that they couldn't be more than fifteen feet above the ground (true enough, though to a boy of six years old such a distance seemed a thousand miles) and promised him that he would be safe, what with such a brave older brother around to protect him. _

_And yet, when Matthew felt the edge of his trainer slip against the bark and felt himself begin to fall backwards, he hardly expected anyone to catch him. Prone to melodrama as most small children are, he began to imagine his funeral, pictured his mother weeping and his father clutching her close to his side, wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye, and took some measure of comfort in imagining his brother crippled with guilt for the rest of his life. _

_He was considerably surprised when he heard Alfred cry his name and felt little arms seal around his waist, felt somebody's chin bump painfully against the top of his head. When he landed, the impact was unexpectedly soft, and aside from the throbbing at the top of his head and a few scrapes from where the branches had whipped against him, he felt little pain. _

_A low groan from below informed him that his rescuer felt quite to the contrary. _

_Before Matthew could react, his mother was scooping him from the ground and throwing him over her shoulder so that she could get a proper look at Alfred, who groaned again, affirming the fact that he had indeed survived. Matthew struggled for a glance over his mother's shoulder and finally glimpsed Alfred lying with his head pillowed in her lap, bleeding from his cheek and with his elbow at a curious angle, glasses skewed across his face, the lenses shattered beyond repair. He was crying, but only a little, and somehow it seemed a very valiant thing to do. _

"_Alfred, honey," his mother kept murmuring, running her fingers through his hair. "Are you alright? Are you alive, do you reckon?"_

_A long moment passed before Alfred groaned again. _

"_I…I think I broke them, mom," he hiccupped, reaching up to touch his glasses. _

_Their mother nodded, touching her knuckle to his forehead. _

"_D…does this mean…" Alfred had begun to sob at this point, but again Matthew thought that his elder brother still seemed admirably brave through his tears. "Does this mean that I don't have to wear them anymore?" _

_His mother was quiet for a long moment, then she tipped her head back with a peal of laughter and Matthew realized with some measure of dismay that he was being handed off to their father, who had come to crouch beside his fallen sons as well. Their mother gingerly plucked Alfred from the group and pulled him snug into her breast, dropping a kiss on his dirt-smudged forehead. _

"_You have always got your priorities straight, haven't you, darling…" she said with a smile before she turned and gestured for Matthew and their father to follow her to the car. She took the passenger seat, propping Alfred up on her lap as they piled in after her. _

"_Let's get you to the hospital, alright?" she murmured, casting a wink at Matthew over her shoulder as their father turned the ignition. "My little hero." _

"Did you know that he once broke his arm at the elbow?"

Arthur looked up from his clipboard. Matthew was fiddling with the corner of one of the pages of _The Great Gatsby. _He looked to be about halfway through. The medal rested on his bedside table, untouched since the officer had gone.

"I'm sorry," said Arthur, coming to his bedside. "Who?"

"Alfred," answered Matthew, "he once broke his arm at the elbow. He did it protecting me."

Arthur blinked and took a seat at the edge of the bed, setting his clipboard down on the tops of his knees. He knew that Matthew would understand the tacit indication to begin the story, and sure enough, after a pause, the boy shut his novel with a slight smile.

"I was six years old," he said softly, "and we were climbing trees. I fell, and he grabbed me and managed to hit the ground first. He broke his arm, two ribs, and his glasses." He chuckled. "I believe the latter was his favorite part of the entire affair."

Arthur echoed his laugh and then tilted his head to the side as if to ask if there was any elaboration to be had.

"Sorry," said Matthew with a gentle smile. "I was just thinking that Alfred has always been the most…the most…the most _carelessly_ generous person I've ever known. He's so thick he doesn't stop to think about the risks of what he's about to do…" He sighed, glancing up at Arthur. "He just jumps in and tries to help however he can, without a thought for his own safety at all."

Arthur swallowed, unable to keep himself from thinking somewhat ironically about the news he had just received from Francis.

"Do you really think so?"

Matthew nodded. "You can see it too, can't you? How he barges in everywhere, the tactless fool." He sighed affectionately. "He'll do anything to get where he thinks he needs to be."

Before Arthur could stop himself, he had murmured, "I hope so."

Matthew smiled sadly. "So long as he doesn't try to play the hero."

Arthur chuckled softly in the back of his throat, running a hand through his hair exhaustedly.

"Well, Matthew," he said with a rueful grin. "I daresay we both known the likelihood of that."

* * *

><p><strong>AN –<strong> Guys please forgive me guys forgive me.

I'm going to start a new USUK AU in a few days…for the Cardverse. In addition, tomorrow I will publish a USUK oneshot for the Cardverse. And um Cardverse.

So you know our nice weekly updates? These will have to be sacrificed. Again, please forgive me. I will publish new chapters quite literally as soon as they are produced, but my schedule will likely grow erratic, and with two big fanfic projects and who knows how much work this semester, I cannot promise the same speed by any stretch. Believe me when I tell you that I did not mean for this to happen. The new story, to be rated M (hurr hurr) and entitled _Fold, _frankly bit me on the ass and still won't let me go. I literally cannot stop writing it.

More information about _Fold_ and my writing schedule can (probably) be found on my tumblr.

Forgive me.

Anyways, thank you all so much for reading! We have officially breached the halfway point on this story…just in time for another, ahaha…ha.

Until next time!


	9. Chapter 9

Two weeks passed and the radio calls stopped altogether. Arthur had known this was coming but still it struck him forcibly, like a physical impact in the center of his chest. He knew that Alfred had almost recovered his ability to walk and that there would be plenty of men to be shot down before him in the eventuality of an ambush, but he had risked the boy once already with disastrous results and was far more than uneasy to allow history to repeat itself. But of course there was no other option; either Alfred moved with the Resistance members or was left to rot in their old base. Francis had told Arthur that they would radio him the moment they arrived at the new location, and though Arthur did not doubt him, every new day of silence wore away at him, slowly leaving him a mess of nerves who dared not even pour himself a glass of gin for fear that he would drink the bottle dry.

In fact, he could barely muster a smile when Matthew demonstrated that he was finally able to run again. The day was unseasonably warm for late March and they were out on one of their routine walks when the boy stopped in the middle of the road and seemed to focus his gaze ahead on nothing in particular, hands curling into fists at his sides. Elizaveta and Arthur stopped a few feet ahead, staring questioningly at him over their shoulders. He met their eyes, and began to grin like a lunatic.

When he took a deep breath and broke into a jog, Elizaveta clapped her hands over her mouth and almost immediately took off after him with a shriek of joy, skirts flapping wildly behind her in the wind. Arthur chuckled softly and followed at a brisk walk, watching them chase each other along the path, Matthew always staying just a hairsbreadth from Elizaveta's fingertips until he finally slowed and opened his arms, cheeks flushed with happiness. She rushed into the embrace, lifting her face from his shoulder to gesture for Arthur to join them. He smiled feebly and held up his hands, but her arm flashed out and grabbed onto his wrist to pull him into the circle before he could protest further.

"I say, this is rather unprofessional," he mumbled into Matthew's chest, and felt laughter rumble against his cheek.

"So were a lot of things," he said breathlessly from somewhere above, and Arthur wondered whether the comment was really as meaningless as it sounded. However, before he could press the matter further, Elizaveta giggled and leaned up to kiss Matthew on the cheek before she wound herself from his embrace and reached out to ruffle Arthur's hair.

"You boys have done well," she said, ignoring his glare. "You should both be proud."

Arthur crinkled his brow. "You speak to us as if you were our mother…"

Elizaveta tipped her head back a peal of laughter.

"Only because you so obviously need one, doctor," she grinned, trying to run her fingers through his bangs again only to have her hand batted away with a hiss. "Really, if I weren't here I think you might forget to eat and quite possibly waste away bent over that clipboard of yours."

Arthur frowned. "I'm a very busy man."

Elizaveta snorted, winding one arm through the crook of Matthew's elbow and the other around a very reluctant Arthur, and began to direct them back towards the infirmary, her skirts flaring out in front of her like heavy green gingham sails with every step.

"Yes, I'm quite aware, doctor," she said with a smirk. "You have a reputation to uphold."

Arthur turned his nose into the air, ignoring the teasing note to her voice. He felt her sigh gently against his shoulder and the pressure of her fingertips against his forearm.

"But I really do think that you might need a vacation," she commented unexpectedly, and Arthur raised an eyebrow in surprise. "This place depresses you a little too much at the moment," she continued softly, eyes focused on the path ahead. "You deserve a few hours away, at the very least."

Arthur furrowed his brow. "There are always new patients and new problems that only I can solve," he said eventually, "I can hardly just tack up an _out to lunch _notice when there's an operation that needs doing, you know."

Elizaveta looked up at him dubiously, unimpressed. He frowned.

"And besides, what would I do with a few hours? Most of my friends are fighting or far away, the lucky fools, and I'm hardly…" He paused. "Well, I don't think I should be going out alone for a drink anytime soon, if you catch my drift."

To her credit, Elizaveta chuckled, but she pressed her cheek into his arm and Arthur knew that the battle was far from won.

"But you have family nearby, don't you?" she murmured after a moment, and Arthur had to bite down on his lower lip to keep from swearing. "Why not pay them a visit?"

They were quiet for a long moment as Arthur struggled to formulate an excuse.

"Well…it's only my mother, and I do write her quite frequently…" he began, already sounding rather feeble to even his own ears. "She really wouldn't be expecting me, and -"

"Mothers always expect their children," interrupted Elizaveta, sensing her victory. "Doctor, you need a break. You know I can handle a few hours without you."

Arthur sighed heavily. She was right, of course. She always was.

"But I don't -" he began.

"No buts."

He rolled his eyes.

"But _mother..!_"

Elizaveta chuckled, patted him on the arm, and that was that. Arthur would be taking tea with Mrs. Kirkland the following afternoon.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Kirkland was nothing if not a proper English lady. Perhaps it was she who had instilled the idea of upholding reputations in the heart of her son. She was a widow of more than five years but had never spent a penny of the life insurance which her husband had left in his wake. She said she would never be able to hold her chin straight up if she did. Nothing if not fiercely proud. She wore black, but instead of mourning, she edited books.<p>

Literature, she would correct with a sniff, she edited literature.

And while she edited her literature, their house never seemed empty, not for all its enormity. The books themselves, Arthur had long since concluded, seemed to breathe life into the old rafters and the immaculate white paint. Typewriter ink stained the cushions of the sofas and the sheets of the bed, turned his mother's fingertips black enough to leave smudges on her fine china teacups, but disorder was life, and he knew that his mother was not lonely because she lived in a house full of imperfect characters to fix.

The house was an enormous white jewel set against a lawn of green velvet. The architecture was as old and admirable as the inhabitant herself, and despite having known the house since childhood, even Arthur felt moderately intimidated as he stepped from the winding gravel driveway onto the slender brick path which led to the stairs. He made his way to the door, lifting the collar of his coat against the light rain, and rapped once, twice.

A moment passed, and then Mrs. Kirkland appeared in the doorway. She was a relatively small woman but maintained an enormous presence, dressed as she was in a sharply tailored black suit despite the fact that it was a dreary Sunday afternoon. She raised an eyebrow upon seeing her son paused somewhat uncomfortably on the landing.

"Here for tea, are we?" she asked eventually, tipping her head to one side. Arthur nodded, and she smiled, leaning up on tiptoe – teetering slightly in her high heels – to lay a brisk kiss on each of his cheeks. He stepped inside and kicked off his shoes so as not to track water through the house, shedding his heavy coat and tucking it safely into the hall closet.

"And what brings on such an unexpected visit?" called his mother as she bustled into the kitchen, where he could already see the familiar kettle brewing. She had fired all the servants upon the death of his father, saying that she would need the housework as a distraction. Arthur remembered his trusty clipboard and the radio and thought that he had finally begun to understand this compulsion.

"My subordinates forced me," he said mildly, knowing that his mother would take no offense. "They say I'm in need of a break."

His mother looked up from organizing a tray of watercress sandwiches and small powdered cakes, her mouth quirking a small smile.

"Are you, now?"

Arthur sighed, unwinding his scarf from around his neck and hanging it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

"Who knows," he said, and dared to pluck a cake from the tray, biting down before his mother could protest. "I suppose I have been wound rather tightly as of late."

His mother snatched up the tray before he could make an attempt at a sandwich and swept away towards the parlor, her high heels ringing out sharply against the floor. Arthur glanced down at the teacups she had sat out, smiling when he caught the slight grey smudges of typewriter ink against their fine rose-china handles. Perhaps it was something of a comfort to take some time back home.

He took the cups and saucers and followed his mother into the parlor, where she was fixing the tray in the center of a small glass table. She thanked him and hurried back to the kitchen to prepare the tea, imploring that he sit down as she went. She returned in a few minutes with the teapot balanced on a small steel tray, peeking out from beneath a large flowered cozy. She filled their cups to the brim and then sat across from Arthur, crossing one leg gracefully over the other.

For all her age, she was still a stately and beautiful woman. Her hair had long since faded from blonde to grey, but she wore it curled carefully down her shoulders, pinned to one side with a delicate emerald clip, a long-ago gift from her husband. Unlike many other women of her years, she wore only a touch of lipstick and perhaps a dash of perfume about the wrists. Arthur had never seen her wear any color other than black since the death of his father, but she nonetheless found a thousand ways to dress like the fine old lady she was.

"So, mum," said Arthur around the rim of his teacup. "How have you been?"

"Oh, as well as always, dear," replied Mrs. Kirkland, shrugging slightly. "And yourself?"

"As well as…" Arthur paused, knowing that his mother would smell the lie regardless of what he said. "Well, I've survived to this point."

Mrs. Kirkland raised an eyebrow, and Arthur knew that she was scrutinizing him over the sandwich she had raised to her lips.

"So what is it?" she said after a long moment. "Work? No…" She interrupted before Arthur could answer. "No, it's not work. You always have enjoyed your work, however gruesome it may become." She squinted at him, drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. "I'm afraid, darling," she sighed at long last, "that I can't quite figure you out. Frankly, I've never seen you like this before."

Arthur furrowed his brow. "Like what?"

His mother made a nebulous gesture through the air. "Like…well, like _this_, dear. You seem so tired, so worried. I mean, you're always worried, but not like…" She frowned. "Not like this."

Arthur opened his mouth, but his mother let out a cry before he could speak, pointing a victorious finger at him and absolutely grinning.

"You're in love!" she exclaimed.

Arthur nearly dropped his teacup.

"Oh, you really are," cackled his mother as he spluttered and desperately wiped the spilled tea from his saucer with the edge of a napkin. "And nursing a broken heart, at that…just look at you, blushing like a madman!"

"Christ, mum," he gasped as soon as he was able. "How the hell does a madman blush, exactly?"

His mother shrugged, still smiling. "So, who is it?" She chuckled. "Judging from your expression, they really broke you up." She winked. "Do I need to give them a proper talking to?"

"I'm a grown man, mum," muttered Arthur, recovering his breath. "And for your information…nobody's _broken me up. _They're just…they're just not…" He heard his own voice grow feeble. "They're just not…here, not at the moment at least."

The amusement faded from his mother's face and she set her teacup and saucer down on the tabletop, reaching over to place her hand on his knee concernedly.

"And I don't…" continued Arthur quietly, feeling heat rise to his collar. "I'm not…in love with them, per se. Ah, well…I don't…I don't know. I only…it was only a few weeks before they left, and I…"

His mother made a soft hushing noise in the back of her throat. "What's he like, dear?"

Arthur looked up at her sharply and she rolled her eyes.

"You know it doesn't matter to me," she said softly, squeezing his knee. "But I want to know more about this lucky young man."

Arthur stared into his teacup.

"His name is Alfred Jones and he's…American, dreadfully so. Loud, obnoxious, overt. Clumsy. He crashes into everything and makes terrible jokes and won't leave me alone. He can't drink for the life of him. He thinks he's some kind of hero. He has no regard for his own safety. He's so damn careless…" His hand formed a fist on the arm of his chair. "But he…he is also generous. He'll do anything he sets his mind on, regardless of the risk. He's honest, saying whatever he thinks. Sometimes it's rude, offensive even, but then sometimes it's…wonderful, and I can't believe he could possibly think something like that about…about me. He's sharp even if he doesn't look it. And he…" He swallowed. "He'll do anything to get to someone he loves. Even die trying. And I don't…" He sighed. "He can't die."

His mother was quiet for a long moment.

"And where is he now?"

Arthur bit down on his lower lip. "I don't know. He could be…" He swallowed again. "For all I know, he could be dead."

His mother squeezed his knee again. "But do you really believe that?"

Arthur considered for a moment, then shook his head. His mother smiled softly and leaned over to kiss his cheek.

"In that case, dear," she murmured, "it simply can't be true."

* * *

><p>The day had grown cold and evening was setting in against the horizon, softening the winter-hardened edges of the countryside with a cloak of grey dusky shadows. Arthur hugged his coat about himself and his numb fingers fumbled over his key as he struggled to open the door to the infirmary; with this finally achieved, he stepped inside and sighed at the rush of warmth, breathing heavily into the cup of his hands to bring the feeling in his fingertips crackling back to life.<p>

With no warning whatsoever, a nurse came dashing down the hallway so quickly that she nearly collided with Arthur. She drew back, entirely flustered, her cheeks brilliantly splotched with red, and was halfway through a hurried apology before she seemed to register his face and her eyes widened for a moment.

"Doctor Kirkland!" she gasped, taking a step backwards. Arthur raised a brow. The nurse was a new arrival, but he vaguely recognized her and was able to discern her name from the tag pinned at her breast.

"Indeed, Marie," he said mildly, "what seems to be the trouble?"

Marie bit down on her lower lip, shaking her head so that her curls wobbled violently.

"I can't quite say myself, sir," she said, voice quavering just slightly. "But it's probably best that you get in there as soon as possible. I've never…" A small swallow seized her throat. "I've never seen anything exactly like it, for sure."

Arthur frowned, but before he could inquire further she had brushed past him down the hall, high heels beating out a frantic rhythm against the tile. He gazed after her for a moment, and then ran one hand through his hair with a faint sigh. Such a shame that he had left his medical coat draped over the armchair in his office; it lent him an air of authority in times like these.

He opened the infirmary to find the entire room dissolved into chaos. Nurses flapped about everywhere like pale pink upset birds, lower-ranked doctors rushed this way and that in evident panic, patients craned their necks to try to get a view of the mess, and the entire mass of confusion seemed to accumulate around one cot at the far end of the room, the inhabitant of which was entirely disguised by the disorder. The noise was uproarious, but somehow when Arthur shut the door behind him, the gentle click of the lock slipping back into place brought two heads up snapping.

Elizaveta, her face just visible from amongst the crowd which surrounded the cot, was the first to speak, for Matthew seemed only capable of gaping.

"Arthur," she sighed, though she could scarcely be heard above the din of the infirmary. Arthur furrowed his brow and she cupped a hand over her mouth, perhaps saying his name again through her fingers. A moment passed, and she suddenly raised her voice to a roar.

"Move aside!" she bellowed. "Move aside, everyone! Let him through! He's Doctor Kirkland, for heaven's sake, let him through!" And she actually began to push at the crowd, with Matthew springing into action only a few moments afterwards as Arthur walked forwards with the slowed movements of a dreaming man, only able to watch as the crowd began to part into a pathway. He came to the foot of the bed and gripped the railing tight, leaning out gradually, wordlessly, wondering if he was waking from a dream.

Blood smudged the corners of his lips and stained the bandages wrapped around his head and shoulders, soaking through the heavy gauze pads that dotted his arms and chest like a collage. His hair was singed at the tips, blackened then golden and sometimes crimson with blood, and his leg lay at an odd angle, splinted clumsily by some incompetent medical assistant. Arthur dully registered that such a poor job would require expensive fixing. One of his hands – the index finger was bandaged, perhaps broken – was fisted partially into the sheets. He was propped up against the pillows and Arthur saw his smile – crooked, bloodstained, brilliant, sending his heart into a madness of beating – but dared not look for his eyes.

He came to the side of the bed and sighed, bending down over Alfred and pressing his fingertips carefully along the splinted leg, drawing back the sheets to get a proper look at the tapestry of bruises flowering blue and black and violet just beneath his skin. He slowly traced his way upwards and realized that the boy had been shot in the thigh, that the bullet had been removed, that the wound was not infected, but that he had been shot in the thigh, and that the bullet had been removed, and..!

"We will have to fix the splint," he said after a very long while. "I am afraid the job had been done absolutely dreadfully. Really, such clumsiness…" He frowned. "Whoever did this ought to be truly ashamed of themselves."

His statement was met with silence, and he looked up at the nurses and doctors and patients hovering about the bed and glared.

"Well now, away with you!" He made a wide gesture with his hand. "I'm the senior doctor here, am I not? Everything is under control." When they hesitated, he nearly gnashed his teeth. "I do believe I said away with you!"

And they scattered, all except for Elizaveta and Matthew, but even they kept their distance. Swallowing, Arthur returned to pressing his fingertips to every burn, every fracture, every gash and stitch and bruise, muttering procedures and antibiotics and anatomic terms just below his breath as he traveled slowly across the tapestry of wounds that had been stitched into Alfred's skin.

"Arthur."

His name had been mumbled from somewhere above. It was not to be regarded. Arthur furrowed his brow at the sight of a twisted lump of scar tissue, fresh and glaring pink, just below Alfred's second rib.

"Arthur." How persistent. How frustrating. He needed to concentrate. "Hey, Arthur."

Morphine, mumbled Arthur to himself, where was Elizaveta with that morphine of hers? Oh, he realized with no small measure of irritation, there was dirt caught in that gash just above Alfred's brow. In fact, the lips of the wound were already beginning to swell. Such incompetent subordinates, he sighed, such incompetent subordinates.

"Arthur, would you stop that for just a minute?"

That voice was so clear, so unmarred by radio static albeit somewhat strained with pain and emotion, that it brought a lump swelling into Arthur's throat, but he shook his head and continued his examination, determinedly gluing his gaze to the blood and the burns, to all of what he would have to fix. That was all that truly mattered, after all.

"Arthur!" The voice tore slightly, and was that physical pain or hurt or just irritation? No, he whipped his head violently from side to side to dispel the thought, no, that was hardly important. What was important was the goddamn morphine. Elizaveta, he remembered, where was Elizaveta? He dared to lift his head only to find that she had disappeared, that in fact the entire infirmary was suddenly close to empty aside from the patients and the occasional nurse. He blinked in confusion before he remembered the matter at hand and began to meticulously catalogue each of the fingers of Alfred's right hand, noting the torn cuticles and the ragged nails and the calluses that turned his thumbs to sandpaper.

"Arthur, what are you…" A slight gasp when Arthur pressed his index finger sharply into his wrist. "Christ, that hurt!"

"Terribly sorry," he mumbled, "you do seem to have a pulse, however."

An incredulous wheeze that might have perhaps been designed as a laugh echoed above his head.

"No shit, Sherlock. I am alive, after all."

Arthur wanted to groan – he was alive, he was, wasn't he? - but instead transitioned to Alfred's neck, ghosting his fingertips over the thrum of his jugular, paying no heed to the flutter of a swallow as he leaned in precariously close to scrutinize a slight bruising at the Adam's apple, nothing more than a smudge of black but present nonetheless.

"Arthur, this is…" Alfred's voice trailed away when Arthur grabbed him by the jaw and began to inspect the line of bone, checking for breaks or bruises that could have been missed. "Arthur!" Now there was real anger coloring his tone, and Arthur's chest and face seemed to catch flame, but he managed to focus his gaze determinedly at the chin, where there was perhaps some discoloration, he wasn't sure.

"Arthur!" cried Alfred, frustration bubbling hot through his voice, and Arthur realized with no small measure of dismay that he was being grabbed by his_ own_ chin and wrenched upwards. "Arthur, for Christ's sake, look at me!"

Arthur bored his gaze into the pillow and Alfred shook him with startling strength, considering his condition.

"Goddammit," he shouted, "just look at me!"

A gaping silence, and then Arthur fell limply into his grip.

"I can't," he finally rasped. "I simply can't." He dug his fingers into the sheets. "I'm afraid, Alfred…I'm afraid that if I look…if I so much as…" He swallowed. "This can't be real, it can't, and if I look…if I look…if I look at you it will all disappear. You won't be here and I won't be touching you and you won't be shouting at me because you've died or you're still gone and I just can't…I can't…" He shook his head. "I can't look. You mustn't make me look. Please, please…" Another swallow. "Please don't make me look. Just let me fix you. I'm a doctor, and it's…it's my job!" His voice tore. "It's my job and my duty and my reputation I'll do it and uphold it and…and you mustn't make me look. Please. I can't. I can't look. You can't leave me again, I won't let you, so I won't look, and you mustn't make me. Please…" He closed his eyes. "I simply cannot look."

Alfred was silent for a long moment, then Arthur felt his fingers loosen on his shoulders. He sighed in relief, though he still felt the pressure of fingertips in his bones, and returned to his careful inventory of every inch of Alfred's body. Eventually he fetched the materials for a fresh splint and, tearing away the old clumsy mess of gauze and wood, fixed up the broken leg properly. He had also brought a syringe of morphine, but Alfred pushed this away when he pressed the needle to the swell of his shoulder.

"I don't want any," he murmured, though Arthur had not asked why.

The minutes blurred together, and Arthur eventually drew away and wiped the sweat from his brow with his fingers aching and bloodstained and every wound on Alfred's body, down to the finest sliver of a cut, bandaged or splinted or otherwise relieved. It took him a long moment to realize that he was still wearing the clothes he had worn to visit his mother: a navy sweater vest, now discolored with blood and ointment, a shirt with a starched collar that had chafed his neck, and formal slacks. He grew flustered to imagine how ridiculous he must look and mumbled that he was finished for the time being and would be back in a moment, but turned to flee to his office only to have his hand snatched so that he jarred to a halt on his second footfall.

Alfred's fingers were warm and Arthur could detect the thud of his pulse. He was alive. There were very few people left in the infirmary, only a few sleeping patients and the occasional listless nurse, and Arthur did not tear his hand away. Instead, he slowly cupped his fingers over his mouth. Alfred was alive. Alfred was broken and bleeding, but his chest rose and fell steadily and his cheeks flushed with color and his grip was strong. He was alive, and he would be safe.

Arthur felt himself wake from his dream of nearly two months, gasped and sobbed in the same moment, and, turning on his heel, hurtled towards the bed. Had it not been for Alfred's broken finger he would have gripped both of his hands tightly in his own, would have pressed them to his cheeks, would have kissed every knuckle, his careful reputation entirely forgotten in his relief. Had it not been for Alfred's bruised shoulders he would have thrown his arms around his neck, buried his face into his collarbone, clung to his arms. Had it not been for Alfred's fractured leg, he would have curled beside him beneath the starched whisper of the hospital sheets and pulled his head into the junction of his own neck and shoulder and put his hand in his hair and slept away the exhaustion of waiting and longing and missing, finally warm against his side.

As things were, however, Arthur cupped his face in both hands and kissed him on the mouth.

He felt Alfred inhale sharply, tasted the blood and earth and life on his lips. For all the chaos of emotion Arthur felt in his heart, the kiss was gentle, and after a moment, Alfred made a tender sound in the back of his throat and put his hand at the nape of Arthur's neck. When they parted, Arthur finally dared to allow their eyes to meet, and with one glance translated every moment of the time they had been apart, retold every instant of pain and despair and joy and hope and lack thereof, and saw reflected in Alfred's gaze a similar story, perhaps more wrought by violence but soft with emotion and relief nevertheless.

"I…" gasped Arthur. "Oh, God."

And he buried his face into Alfred's shoulder despite the bandages, clutching at his bare back, scarcely able to believe that he could feel real muscle coil beneath his fingertips, warm and living. Alfred grunted but wrapped his arms securely around his waist and pressed the tip of his nose into his neck, breath running warm beneath his collar.

"Oh God," repeated Arthur, with no regard for how his voice tore and quavered over every other syllable, "I was so afraid you would be dead.

"But I'm not," murmured Alfred, digging his fingers into the fabric of his sweater vest. "I'm not, and everything's alright."

Arthur leaned back, though he kept his arms curved loosely around Alfred's neck, and shook his head disbelievingly. Suddenly he was exhausted, every bone of his body aching now that the weight of missing and waiting and pacing the floor of his office and of the ball of foil in the pocket of his medical coat and of the radio communicator resting in the palm of his hand and of the waves of empty static washing past his ears, had been lifted. He hadn't realized that everything had been so heavy, but people often do not feel such things in dreams, and with Alfred safe in his arms, Arthur was at last able to fully understand that up until a few moments ago he had existed as if asleep, as if he were nothing more than another patient numbed into unconsciousness by chloroform and morphine. In his enormous relief, he began to tremulously understand that he had been truly, deeply afraid.

Arthur had feared that he would never wake again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN –<strong> Honestly, I am so relieved to be done with those radio conversations; they were really vexing to write. However, with six chapters left (including the epilogue), we've still got some more shit to go down, so to speak. Also, expect more Francis. We're not done with him by any means. :3

**An enormous** and very apologetic thank you to Trumpet-Geek, who so lovingly does pretty much all the research for this fic only to have me forget to credit her, heh. Regardless, she is spectacular and breathtaking and without her the historical background of this story would be verging on blasphemy.

Anyways, **thank you all so much** for reading and reviewing, and for sticking with this story up to this point. It means the world to me.

Until next time!

PS - Did I giggle when I made Alfred say _no shit, Sherlock?_ Possible.


	10. Chapter 10

Arthur could have stayed folded in his arms for hours, his nose buried into his shoulder, breathing the blood and sweat and tasting the life on his skin, but he was forced to recall that they were in a public infirmary, where nurses flitted to and fro every other minute with bright, curious eyes, and eventually withdrew, letting his hands fall finally from Alfred's shoulders, his fingertips lingering on the bandages that traced pathways over his skin and wound down the smooth slope of his back and around his abdomen almost like plotlines of some faraway tale of war. Arthur blinked with the sad realization that at some point he would have to get Alfred to tell him every story that was etched across his body, written in blood and scars and burns. He would have to know.

However, such things were best saved for another time. He touched Alfred's cheek with his knuckle and straightened with a sigh, though he was unable to keep himself from smiling when Alfred leaned forwards as if to snatch his hand from the air before frowning and falling back onto the pillows with the faintest frown creasing his brow.

"Go to sleep, love," murmured Arthur. "That's what you need most."

Alfred, despite having already shut his eyes, quirked an eyebrow and mumbled that he personally begged to differ. Arthur flushed and shushed him again before he turned to go to the medicine cabinet, something strangely buoyant rising in his throat. He swallowed, worriedly pressing his fingertips gingerly to his jugular, before he realized that he was simply relieved, happy. He exhaled softly. It felt curious after so long.

He was fiddling with a vial of antibiotics when a hand closed on his shoulder and he turned to experience the second shock of the last hour.

Francis merely laughed and shook his head when he choked and nearly spilled the medicine all across the counter; swearing, Arthur scarcely rescued the vial from shattering in his fist and hastily found support by leaning heavily against the edge of the counter, taking a moment to recover his breath. Francis was still smirking, and the expression struck a strange juxtaposition with the thin scar that ran halfway down his cheek and jarred his lips, with the way he clutched his arm clumsily to his stomach beneath his hospital gown. It was then that Arthur realized he was indeed wearing a hospital gown, that his yellow hair hung matted about his face and shoulders, that there were new lines of fear and exhaustion cutting downwards from the corners of his mouth and the edges of his eyes.

"Bloody hell," he gasped. "What happened to you?"

Francis chuckled, and despite their tiredness his eyes danced.

"Quite thrilled to see you, too, _mon cher," _he crooned, reaching out to touch Arthur's cheek affectionately. "You seem to be as feisty as ever."

But Arthur was too occupied with inspecting his injuries to protest the gibe, slowly pacing a circle around him as he examined his broken arm, the scars that traced patterns across his face and neck, the suggestions of bruising at his wrists. He could smell the faint murmur gunpowder beneath the strong reek of antiseptic, and of generic painkiller.

"Elizaveta got her hands on you, did she not?" he asked eventually, once he had circled back to face his old friend. Francis chuckled again, nodding, and Arthur sighed.

"There's no helping that one," he muttered, though he smiled slightly despite himself before he glanced up at Francis more sternly. "Either way, you still haven't answered my question."

Francis merely shrugged. "I am in a war, dear doctor, lest we should forget."

Arthur rolled his eyes but turned back to arranging his medicines, somewhat pacified.

"And I suppose you accompanied Alfred here?" he asked without turning around, knowing that Francis was still hovering nearby, probably fiddling with the collar of his hospital gown or twirling a strand of filthy hair about his index finger.

"Indeed," replied Francis after a moment, joining Arthur at the counter and resting his cheek on his palm. "I wanted to make sure he arrived safely. We ran into…" He paused, brow knitting. "Well, the passage was not entirely uneventful, if you follow me, especially for the poor boy. However, the nurses seemed quite concerned with my condition, curiously enough."

Arthur glanced up briefly. "Silly things, the whole lot," he scoffed, returning to the antibiotics. "You're just fine."

Francis shrugged, turning to rest his elbows on the counter and crossing one elbow over the other.

"The arm is rather shattered," he said eventually.

"Don't be a pussy," returned Arthur.

Francis tipped his head back with a soft chuckle; his hair nearly brushed the surface of the counter. Arthur sniffed. How unsanitary. They were quiet for a good while, during which Arthur pretended to be quite occupied. Eventually, however, his hands eased to a standstill and he ducked his head, shoulders swelling with a sigh.

"Thank you," he muttered, barely above a whisper. "Thank you, Francis. I…" He bit down on his lower lip. "I rather owe you my life, I suppose."

Francis was silent, and when Arthur looked up, his mouth was hanging slightly ajar in abject surprise. He raised a brow questioningly and Francis swallowed visibly.

"Why, Arthur _Kirkland,_" he said after a moment, pressing his palm dramatically to the center of his chest, eyes dancing. "Forgive me; I had little idea that you considered the boy to be of equivalent value to your _life_."

Arthur gaped for a moment, then felt heat rush up from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears. He struggled to compose himself, coughing faintly into the ball of his fist.

"I do say, that isn't what I meant," he managed eventually, though his voice sounded rather strange to his own ears. "What I meant was…well, what I meant was…" He trailed off feebly. "Thank you, anyways."

Francis smiled crookedly and thumped Arthur on the back, striking with considerable impact given his condition. Arthur grumbled and shook him away as he tried to recover some scrap of dignity, wistfully recalling that dear old reputation, left behind long ago in the hysteria of grief and shock and relief that had characterized the past few months. Another moment of silence stretched between them, and when Arthur looked up again, he saw Francis gazing soberly at Alfred where he lay asleep in the cot, golden hair spread around him over the pillow.

"Something the matter?" Arthur asked eventually, a jolt of alarm starting through his heart when Francis glanced back at him and he recognized distress and indecision in his eyes. His voice sharpened and he set down the syringe he had been fixing. "Tell me, Francis."

Francis inhaled heavily and shut his eyes.

"There's something…" he began, words jolting as he exhaled. "Arthur, there's something…I don't know what, but there's something the matter with Alfred, and I…I haven't been able to fix it. He won't get better." Francis turned to Arthur almost imploringly, terrifyingly. "Please, I hope you can forgive me."

Arthur felt unsteady. "What is it?"

Francis turned away. "His eyes," he said softly. "Something happened in the crash; perhaps he struck his head, perhaps some shrapnel got in too deeply to be detected, perhaps it's nothing more than psychological…I daren't say that I know, but I can tell you that his ability to see…well, he's obviously not blind, but…" He paused. "Something will never be the same again. Colors, lines, words, they're blurry to him. I fear he'll never recover, and I'm…I'm sorry, Arthur. He won't fly again. I haven't yet told him, but I think he knows nonetheless."

Arthur was quiet for a long time, then he was smiling, and a small peal of laughter fought its way from his throat. Francis stared at him, startled.

"Oh, thank God," gasped Arthur finally. "You bastard, you made me think the boy was terminally ill." He clapped Francis on the shoulder rather harder than was necessary, a minor but nonetheless satisfactory revenge. "I don't very well give a damn how he sees, and well…" He paused, smiling almost tentatively. "Honestly, I can't help but be glad he won't fly again. He'll be crushed, but only for a while, and…oh, I don't know. Maybe…" He glanced down at his feet. "Maybe he can…perhaps…ah, stick around here, at least until this whole mess has run its course, you know." Arthur cleared his throat. "Only so that I can make sure he hasn't suffered any psychological or hidden damage, naturally."

Francis, to his credit, did not laugh or tease, simply nodded, and only smiled when Arthur returned to Alfred's bedside and touched his cheek, when Alfred pressed his face into the curve of his palm in his sleep, the crease between his brows lightening and the come and go of his breathing steepening. Francis had, after all, known the complex and reserved language of the English people for many years, and understood full well what Arthur truly meant.

* * *

><p>The next few days soon revealed that Alfred had no plans to reveal himself. He slept, he read a novel every once in a while, he fidgeted, he entertained long conversations with Matthew and Elizaveta, he grew somewhat nervous every time he spotted Francis chatting with Arthur from his neighboring hospital bed, and he smiled whenever Arthur drew near, beckoned him over, took his hand, sighed contentedly and shut his eyes.<p>

Arthur was desperately curious to know what had happened, not from fragments of stories handed down through Francis but through Alfred himself, through his bumbling but sincere mouth and heartrendingly expressive eyes and that apologetic way he fiddled with his glasses whenever a difficult subject arose. He wanted Alfred to look up at him and tell him outright that the dark green sweater he wore beneath his medical coat was the same color as the grass outside and the sickly peeling paint on the walls and the worried glint in his eyes, he wanted Alfred to take his hand and confess to the fear that lingered in his expression when he thought Arthur wasn't looking, he wanted to wrap Alfred in his arms and promise him that none of it, not a single bit, made any difference as far as they were concerned, because it didn't, it truly didn't.

What did make a difference was that whenever the journey back to England surfaced in their conversation, Alfred grew unnecessarily cheerful and his voice rose to an almost shrill decibel and he smiled and teased too loudly, and Arthur surrendered every time, because he hated to see him so palpably uncomfortable. Even so, he couldn't help but begin to feel hurt as the weeks began to trail by and Alfred still told him absolutely nothing, though he was often caught staring into the far wall or sighing into the pages of a book, eyes dim and faraway, perhaps trying to recover the old colors and dimensions they had lost.

Francis had outlined the story sufficiently so that Arthur could understand what had actually happened. The resistance fighters had left the base and traveled uninterrupted for days before they encountered a small group of Germans camped out somewhere near the outskirts of Paris. They greatly outnumbered the enemy, and the fight had been brief but taxing. Francis shattered his arm against a rock when he was diving for cover from the gunfire. Alfred himself was shot in the thigh. Eleven men fell in total, but they made it to the new base and immediately sent for transport to England, to Arthur. They arrived some weeks later, and that was that.

Those were indeed the facts, but Arthur was very well read and knew that every story was richer, that there were threads of emotion and characterization and pain and longing that Francis could not spin for him, but that he needed to hear nevertheless. Alfred knew the plot by heart, it was etched into his skin and his mind and his eyes most of all, and one day, Arthur began to agonize, one day he would be able to narrate it.

Three weeks blurred together and Arthur began to grow impatient. It was not only that Alfred was avoiding serious conversation; it was that he and Alfred were forced to avoid one another daily, in every sense of the idea. The infirmary was never empty and seldom quiet. Arthur was busy and Alfred was exhausted, sleeping away the majority of the day, only waking to eat or read or play with Arthur's fingers like a bored child. Their last kiss had been on the day of Alfred's arrival, and it was an outright crime, Arthur considered as he hunched over his clipboard or arranged the medicines or mixed himself a drink, that the boy should be so near and yet so untouchable.

Regardless of his more base considerations, when a month had come and gone and Alfred remained quiet, full of nothing but airy sighs and faraway expressions, Arthur resolved that not another day would pass without a confession. The standard monthly examination was a suitable excuse to corner him and gain some information, he decided, no longer caring for delicacy; he was raw with worry and exasperation, and he only wanted the story, wanted an Alfred free of false smiles that only made him seem more heartrendingly vulnerable, even if that meant he would frown from time to time.

Alfred settled onto the examination room table, setting the thin sheet of wax paper to whispering beneath his weight, and Arthur was inadvertently reminded of the first time he had boxed the boy into this room, in fact for a very similar purpose. How ironic it was that they communicated more easily through radio, he thought drolly as he shut and discreetly locked the door of the examination room behind them. He went to the sink, washed his hands, and snapped on a pair of latex gloves while Alfred shifted almost rhythmically to and fro atop the table, accommodating himself. When Arthur turned, he was met with a devastatingly soft smile. He swallowed, and went to examine the pale pink lump of scar tissue at Alfred's thigh as if honestly concentrating on the wound.

"It's looking well," he said softly, wondering if Alfred could feel his breath against his skin. "You recover quickly, my boy." He paused, and glanced up at Alfred for a fleeting moment before ducking his head again. "Or your body does, that is."

He heard Alfred inhale sharply, hang suspended for a moment with bated breath, and finally give a carefully measured sigh. Silence stretched between them, and when Arthur looked up again Alfred was biting his lip, his brow furrowed, casting a shadow over his eyes. Arthur had to press down the urge to shake him violently until his glasses jarred and his wounds broke open again and he frowned, finally frowned, frowned and quit pretending.

"Alfred," he said quietly, dropping his hands from the bandages and reaching up to cup his neck. "Alfred, you're not yourself."

Alfred sucked on his lower lip, his heartbeat picking up palpably beneath Arthur's thumb. "I'm fine," he said after a moment. "Really, I'm fine. You're a great doctor, Arthur." He looked up at him with that same soft smile and Arthur wanted to slap him and hold him in the same instant. "I trust you."

Arthur stared at him with his mouth hanging slightly ajar. "Then tell me," he managed finally. "I want to know what happened." He shook his head. "I deserve to know what happened."

Alfred blinked, seeming confused. "Francis already told you how we got here," he said. "What else is there to know?"

Arthur sighed. His palms were still pressed to Alfred's neck, warm with the thrum of his pulse.

"No story is complete without characterization, Alfred," he mumbled after a long time. "I want to know…I want to know what you felt, how it was for you. I want to know what hurt, and why. I understand that it's been a long time since we were together like…like…well." He chuckled softly. "Like whatever we were, but you should remember that I…" His sense of reason caught up with his tongue and he jolted to a halt. "That I…that I care very much for you."

Alfred nodded, ducking his chin. "I know you do," he whispered. "But I feel like I can't…" He looked up and lifted his hand to touch a lock of Arthur's hair, his fingers lingering against his forehead as if memorizing the lines of worry etched into his skin. "I feel like I can't touch you, like everybody is watching us, and I don't like it."

Arthur felt his breath snag in his throat. "Neither do I," he managed. Alfred dropped his hand.

"I hate it," he said.

"You've been shutting yourself away, Alfred," murmured Arthur before he could stop himself. "I beg of you not to do that. It's not like you. I hate _that_."

Alfred was quiet for what seemed an eternity, then his shoulders seized beneath Arthur, then he seemed to crumble forwards and his arms folded hard around him. He buried his face into his shoulder with a groan, the sound tearing from his throat unbroken by tears but strained with pain and a strange note of relief. Arthur dropped his hands from around his neck to hold him, though he was unused to such tender gestures.

"They don't know what's happened to them," Alfred said after a long time of nothing but clutching Arthur tightly to his chest. "Everything is blurry, like a watercolor. A mess of smudgy lines and colors that I can't quite pick out, and they don't know how to fix it. Nobody does, not even you." His voice broke and he fell quiet. Arthur waited a moment before he pressed his lips to the top of his head.

"It's my eyes, Arthur," groaned Alfred.

"I know," said Arthur quietly. "Francis told me the day you arrived."

Alfred stiffened in his arms. "You mean to say that he…"

"Hush love, yes," murmured Arthur. "I was only waiting for you to tell me yourself."

A growl rose in Alfred's chest and he snapped up in Arthur's arms, eyes blazing to life. "Why, I'll…" He tried to free himself but Arthur kept him close against his chest. An injured man was no match for a doctor who enjoyed a comfortable salary and plentiful rations, and after a moment Alfred relented, going limp and pressing his cheek into Arthur's shoulder again.

"He had no right," he mumble. "He had no right."

Arthur began to stroke his hair. "He very well did, Alfred," he said softly. "Considering that I am your doctor and I should know everything about you."

Alfred was quiet for a moment, considering this. "I thought you would figure it out when you saw me," he said eventually. "I thought you would know right away and I wouldn't have to worry about telling you. When you didn't realize it, I…" He paused. "I guess I got afraid."

Arthur pulled back in surprise, tilting Alfred's chin up to meet his gaze. "Afraid?" he almost demanded. "Goodness, afraid of what?"

Alfred fidgeted, tried to pull away, but Arthur would have none of it. After a moment he seemed to accept defeat and resorted to averting his gaze, color flooding his cheeks.

"You realize, Arthur," he mumbled. "I won't ever fly again."

Arthur blinked, not understanding. "No you won't," he said mildly, "and I'm very sorry about that, very sorry indeed."

To his surprise, Alfred winced.

"I…" he said slowly, as if frightened of his own words. "I'm sorry, Arthur, I didn't mean…I can't…I hope…" He trailed off entirely, looking outright miserable. Arthur gazed at him in abject bewilderment, unconsciously leaning forwards in confusion and reaching up to brush his thumb across his cheek.

"Stop that," he whispered without quite realizing that he was speaking at all. "Stop looking so sad when I can't understand why."

Alfred shut his eyes and pressed into Arthur's palm with a sigh.

"I didn't mean to disappoint you," he said after a long moment.

Arthur blinked and exhaled sharply, finding himself at a rare loss for words. Eventually, Alfred opened his eyes, chewing on his lower lip as he gazed up cautiously at Arthur from beneath the frames of his glasses. Their eyes met and Arthur shook his head, angry and pained and incredulous to see a flicker of fear skirt the edges of Alfred's expression like a shadow cast by candlelight.

"You idiot," he growled, gripping him by the shoulders. "You sodding idiot."

The fear flitted away to be replaced with confusion. Arthur shook Alfred once, twice, so that his glasses skewed across the bridge of his nose.

"You think I'm…disappointed?" Arthur gave him one last shake before he clutched him to his chest and buried his nose deep into his hair. "Please, Alfred…please don't tell me that's what you were afraid of. Don't tell me that you honestly believe that I could ever be disappointed with what you've done." Alfred said nothing, and Arthur chuckled disbelievingly. "Apparently some things never do change; no matter what, you're a fool, Alfred, and I'm beginning to suspect that you always will be." His voice emerged curiously muffled. "You fool, you insufferable, wonderful fool. I'm…Christ, I'm bloody _thrilled _that you're never going to fly again. It scared me senseless. I never imagined I could feel so afraid and vulnerable for a goddamn person, and I never want to feel that way again." He smiled into his hair. "Though at the rate you seem to be going, I doubt that I will get my wish."

Alfred was quiet for a long moment before he leaned back from Arthur's arms, lacing the fingers of their right hands together on his thigh and gazing up at him sheepishly from beneath his glasses.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," he said softly. "For not telling you."

Arthur shook his head exasperatedly, impossibly fondly, taking his other hand and pressing his palm firmly.

"Stop apologizing, it's not like you." He had to speak past the chuckle rising in his throat. "Why don't you just…oh, why don't you just jump up and grin and tell me that of course you weren't worried because heroes don't worry, or something equally ridiculous?" He lifted his hand and hesitantly pressed a kiss to one of the soft spots between his knuckles. "My very deepest apologies if my impression of you doesn't come off as terribly convincing, darling."

Alfred remained fixated on their still-joined hands, before he broke into an honest smile and lifted his gaze to Arthur.

"I missed you," he said, his grin fading into a tentative curve of the mouth.

"I know," replied Arthur, and leaned forwards to kiss him. He felt warm and pliable against his mouth, and the kiss was gentle to begin with, Alfred leaning forwards happily against Arthur's lips with a soft hum of contentment caught halfway in the back of his throat. After a moment of this, however, Arthur rather abruptly recalled the near month that had passed since they had truly seen each other, and as if picking up on some tacit signal, Alfred's hands were suddenly knotting into his hair, and he himself was hurtling forwards, fingers digging into the fabric of Alfred's hospital gown and contentedly fastening him there against his chest.

Without breaking away, Alfred scooted backwards across the examination table, haphazardly dragging Arthur along until he was splayed flat across his stomach, with his elbows balanced on either side of his head. Laughter bubbling in his throat, Arthur pulled away for a moment to arrange them properly, clicking his tongue softly against the roof of his mouth as he forced Alfred to prop himself up against the pillow at the end of the table so that his injuries would not be upset. He himself leaned back so that he straddled Alfred's hips with his hands braced against his chest, careful to avoid the bandages that drew mazes of linen and gauze beneath the fabric of his hospital gown. He tilted forwards and kissed Alfred again, smiling when he put his hands on his waist and began to draw clumsy circles along the curves of his hips, somehow managing to be haplessly tender even in such a moment.

The war seemed to have taken no malignant effect on Alfred's enthusiasm; he was as eager as ever, nudging forwards and opening his mouth and carving burning pathways up the small of Arthur's back with his palms. However, when Arthur pulled away briefly to shrug from his medical coat, not sparing it so much as glance as it crumpled to the floor, and made a dive for the tie of his hospital gown, Alfred was suddenly drawing away and spluttering like a broken spigot, and his hands were no longer dancing along Arthur's spine but rather held up almost defensively. Perplexed and somewhat irritated, Arthur sat back on his stomach, bracing his palms firmly against his ribcage and frowning. A moment passed and he realized that Alfred was looking at him with something akin to fear; he immediately softened and leaned forwards to cup his cheek, making a soft hushing sound from the back of his throat.

"Love, it's alright," he murmured, "what's the matter?"

Alfred's brow crinkled but he seemed unable to keep from pressing into Arthur's touch, conflict flitting across his expression.

"That's a little…" He was breathing heavily, but then again, so was Arthur. "Don't you think that's a little bit fast?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Well, we've fucked like this before," he said frankly, and had to bite his lip to keep from chuckling at the color that rushed to Alfred's cheeks. "But I suppose I wasn't really thinking; if you don't think that your injuries will be able to hold up, then we don't have to do anything, of course." He shrugged. "What's another few weeks after months, anyways?"

Alfred looked away, almost grimacing with discomfort. "It's not that, really."

Arthur sighed, gently brushing a wayward lock of corn-colored hair from his forehead.

"What is it, then, love?"

"It's just…I don't…" Alfred looked down. "Well, I guess you could say it is the injuries that are bothering me, after all. It's just that…" He paused. "It's just that I don't really know what to do with my body anymore." His cheeks glowed. "I've only just now started to use both my legs again, and my arms are still sore, so I…I don't know, it's kind of like being a little kid again and stumbling over everything, and I don't…" He bit down on his lower lip. "I don't…well, you know."

Arthur frowned. "If you dare so much as insinuate that you don't want to disappoint me…" He trailed off, exasperated, and shook his head as if to dispel the unpleasant thought. "Honestly, Alfred, it's not like you to be so self-conscious. It worries me. And I shouldn't have to tell you that it's not just a result of eagerness on my part due to the fact that I haven't, ah…_seen _you, per se…for months," he added, "it truly worries me."

"Is it that strange?" asked Alfred, returning his hands to Arthur's waist.

"It's uncharacteristic," replied Arthur, "rather than strange. You've been through quite a good deal, and from a medical standpoint I can honestly tell you that it's only natural that those experiences should change you to an extent. I suppose that the differences are only really noticeable to a trained eye such as mine. Nevertheless, I would hate to see you limit yourself as a result."

Alfred was quiet for a moment before chuckled, squeezing Arthur's hips.

"Please," he scoffed. "You just want to get in my shorts."

"You're not wearing shorts," retorted Arthur crisply, tilting his nose into the air. "And I will gladly proceed with this operation in whatever way makes you the most comfortable."

Alfred snorted. "Operation? Oh man, looks like you've been reading the news too much, Arthur." But his voice sunk to a more tender tone, and he resumed his pursuit of the circles over the bends of his hips. "I'd like to give it a shot," he said softly, glancing up at him shyly, as if for permission. "Just not right now."

Arthur smiled warmly and kissed Alfred on the forehead. "Of course, love," he said, clambering from the examination table with a grunt and offering his hand to help Alfred into an upright position as well. "As soon as you're ready, just say the word." He paused, then turned back to face Alfred, fidgeting with the sleeve of his medical gown. "You know, I have…ah…I have missed you terribly."

Alfred stopped in his descent from the examination table to adjust his glasses and look at Arthur quite seriously.

"You have no idea," he said, and the earnest note to his voice made Arthur's heart stutter despite himself. "You really have no idea."

Arthur felt heat rush to his neck and ears, and distractedly ran his fingers through his messy hair, reaching out with the other hand to fix the collar of Alfred's medical gown, which lay askew over his collarbone and revealed a glimpse of snowy white linen bandages.

"Best to look presentable," he said when Alfred glanced down at him bemusedly. "This whole affair isn't terribly professional, if you're not aware."

Alfred threw his head back with a laugh, stopping Arthur at the doorknob to press a brief kiss to his mouth, warm and almost cheerful.

"No," he chuckled as he pulled away, "not terribly professional indeed."

* * *

><p><strong>AN <strong>–Heads up that the next chapter won't exactly be safe for work.

Much gratitude to Trumpet-Geek, my darling historical consultant, and as always, thank you all so much for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**AN –** Guys, I want to thank you for all your lovely comments on the last chapter. I usually reply to reviews, but I couldn't find the time last update. Please know that I read every single one and they make me smile like a complete idiot.

Sorry that the update is so late in coming; I've been really busy. Quick note that this is where the **M rating** really comes into play. Maybe it will be worth the wait, ha. In any case, enjoy!

* * *

><p>The weather warmed and the countryside blushed with spring. The war became a faraway idea, almost like a dream despite the steady flow of injured pilots and the hissing of the radio broadcasts day and night. Alfred improved steadily. He began to smile more often, to remark on how he wished he could fully appreciate the touches of color that spring lent to the hills. Arthur would smile sadly and let his hand linger on his shoulder. The countryside was a watercolor painting, he would tell him softly, swirled strokes of green and grey and then sudden matte explosions of pink and yellow. Alfred would sigh and reached up to squeeze his hand briefly, before the nurses could see.<p>

Matthew had long since fully recovered, but he would not leave the infirmary without his brother, and Arthur dared not to complain. In fact, he would be lonely without the boy; he had begun to respect and love him as a dear friend. He saw no reason to send him away sooner than was necessary. The infirmary grew to be almost lively. At his suggestion, Francis had been installed as an assistant surgeon. He bemoaned the demotion and was ignored. Arthur knew how glad he was for the work.

But perhaps it was not only the work for which he was glad. Several times, as Arthur went from bedside to bedside jotting down notes or administering injections, he had caught Francis and Matthew talking at the counter, or just outside the door smoking cigarettes, or watching Alfred sleep with identical concerned expressions on their faces. He asked Matthew whether they had become friends and received a surprised look and a bashful nod in reply.

"He is an interesting man," murmured Matthew, running one hand through his hair. "He seems almost enchanted by the fact that I speak French."

Arthur chuckled. "That's Bonnefoy, for you. You'll have his trust all your life now that he knows you speak the language of…ah, _les gens de France, oui?" _

Matthew smiled gently. "I suppose. He certainly has some fascinating stories to tell. He has seen so much of war, more than I ever will. He has risked so much for his country, more than any soldier here. From what he's told me I can only assume that he must be very…" He paused. The tips of his ears turned faintly pink. "Passionate, that is, about certain things."

Arthur was unable to keep himself from smirking.

"He's a bastard," he replied easily. "But an admirable one, at that."

Matthew laughed softly. The tips of his ears were still blushing. "Is there such a thing?"

Arthur shrugged and balanced the tip of his pen between his lips. "Well, from what I've seen and overheard, _mon cher Mathieu…" _He outright grinned._ "_That seems to be up for you to discover."

And with that, he left Matthew gaping at the door to his office.

He was surprised to find Francis inside already, rifling through his old medical files and chewing on the end of an antique glass fountain pen. There was no need to ask the reason for his presence; Arthur merely set his clipboard down on his desk and went to his drink cabinet to mix two gin and tonics. Eventually Francis sighed and tucked the manila folder back into the filing cabinet.

"I cannot find the necessary data for that young man who has twisted up his spinal column," he sighed as he accepted the drink and swirled the ice about in the bottom of the glass. "In fact, how he even managed to achieve such an injury and survive is entirely beyond me. Arthur, my dear friend, I am rather far from fond of this menial labor." He gestured at the bookshelves and filing cabinets. "I do hope for a promotion soon."

Arthur snorted into his gin. "It's hardly menial labor, Francis," he replied. "And besides, it isn't as if the work were the only thing keeping you here."

Francis looked at him curiously. A smile was playing with the corners of his mouth.

"So you've noticed, then," he murmured after a moment. "You've done so rather quickly. I'm impressed."

Arthur took a long draw from his gin before he set the glass back down atop his desk. "Matthew is more obvious than you are. He seems to like you, Francis. I don't suppose you've…" He paused, not wanting to say it. Francis chuckled warmly.

"No. In fact, I haven't said anything to him at all." He smiled appreciatively at Arthur's surprised expression. "There is something different about him. I have trouble finding the right words. It requires more…planning, more finesse, when he is such a subdued and soft-spoken person. From what he has told me I can infer that he has a strong heart, and yet he does not feel the need to broadcast this. It fascinates me. He is…a challenge, to say the least."

Arthur gazed at him for a moment before he leaned back on the desk, tipping his head to look up at the ceiling. "I must say, Francis, I've never heard you talk about anyone exactly like this before."

Francis laughed dryly. "Nor have I. Seems that both Jones brothers are intriguing specimens."

"Matthew's last name is Williams," corrected Arthur with a smirk. "Don't ask me why; whenever I wonder aloud, they both look away and mumble some flimsy excuse such as _it's complicated_ or _you really wouldn't be interested_. My best guess is that it must have something to do with the divorce of their parents."

Francis raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? Well then, my dear King of Pedantry…" He winked. "Let's say that the family bloodline certainly seems to carry something enrapturing, _non?_"

Arthur smiled. "I'll drink to that. And to your good luck with young Williams." He raised a finger warningly. "Provided that you treat him seriously, that is."

Francis tipped back his glass. "I don't think I ever could do otherwise." He swallowed deeply. "And to you and young Jones," he added, and as an afterthought: "Whenever you move along, of course."

Arthur set his glass down sharply. "What's that supposed to mean, pray tell?"

Francis ducked his head but couldn't hide the grin that stretched around the rim of his glass. "It's only that he's nearly healthy again," he said innocently. "I would think that he'd be quite capable of getting up from bed, going for a walk, other…such activities…considering that he is constantly bouncing from the walls of this establishment, _non?_"

Arthur stared. "Other such activities? Surely you do not labor under the delusion that you are actually achieving subtlety, my dear friend." He drained his glass. Francis shrugged.

"I meant nothing by it," he replied. "Do not misunderstand me; it was little more than a suggestion."

Arthur snorted. "We've talked about it, but I haven't gotten to see him much. You know that. This war is waxing, Francis, to whatever end. We cannot tell what tomorrow may bring."

Francis snorted. "Now you're just…ah, _waxing, _if I may_…_philosophical in order to evade the matter at hand. Why don't you take him out for an afternoon, just to the countryside? The war is not going to climax in the span of several hours. In fact, it would probably benefit his health, as well as your own. I can see that you still miss him, even though he is returned." He paused. "You do love him, don't you?"

Arthur stopped trailing his finger along the rim of his empty glass. He frowned faintly. "I…well, to be honest, I haven't…I haven't been considering…that. Love. No, it…there hasn't been time. I've been so busy. Maybe I do. Love him, that is. I'm not sure. At any rate, I couldn't tell him even if I knew. Not enough time. A confession like that…well, there has to be some time. Time to…enjoy it, I suppose. Time to appreciate the moment. I mean…" He glanced up helpessly. "It's sodding _love, _Francis. Even if I were sure that I loved him, I wouldn't want to just drop by his bedside and tell him and then go back to work. I need time, time more than anything. Time." He trailed off wistfully. "I need the time to get to know him again."

Francis was quiet for a moment. "I could offer you a hand," he said eventually, "provided that you might trust me for a few hours."

Arthur frowned. "You're thinking of taking over the infirmary for an afternoon? What with the number of new arrivals that come in every day?"

Francis nodded. "You know I could do it."

Arthur's frown deepened. "Of course you can. It's rather a matter of personal pride for me, however."

"Two days," said Francis, leaning across the desk with a raise of his eyebrows. "In two days, let me have the infirmary for the afternoon. Like I said, the war won't climax in three hours. Take the Jones boy out to the countryside and let him get some sunshine and show him the nice flowers that grow out in the forest and hold hands and blush and giggle and perhaps bring some food and then let him fuck you senseless on a picnic blanket."

Arthur stared. "I never mentioned anything of the sort!"

Francis smirked and tapped him on the tip of the nose. "Why my dear, I thought it was only implied."

* * *

><p>Arthur was somewhat reassured by Alfred's enthusiastic reaction to the idea. When the surprise had faded from his expression, he smiled more brightly than he had in weeks and a new light crackled into his eyes. Arthur was tempted to kiss him but a group of nurses was floating past; he only scarcely managed to resist the impulse, instead pressing one hand deep into his shoulder. The way Alfred looked at him spoke volumes. There was no need for more words.<p>

Arthur was nothing if not clumsy with romantic gestures. In fact, he had so little experience with such things that he hardly had any idea of how to execute them at all, let alone successfully. He had spent most of his life dedicated to his work and had never needed to know how to arrange a bouquet of roses or buy good champagne or pack a picnic basket, after all. He began to fervently wish that Alfred were in his place. The boy had the good luck to possess genuine charm, an ease of self-expression, however bumbling. Arthur had no such ability. He began to agonize over every detail.

But then the morning of the next day arrived, and he crept into the infirmary, and Alfred was already awake, waiting for him. There was a tattered old copy of _Vanity Fair _spread on his lap, but he had tilted his head towards the ceiling rather than read. His eyes were tracing the cracks that jutted through the plaster. The other patients were still asleep and the soft sound of their breathing filled the air. The early morning sun drew gentle golden patterns on the floor, across the mattresses, light pooling in the sheets and trickling into puddles by the feet of the beds.

"Get dressed," said Arthur crisply. He had left his medical coat behind in his office and was wearing plain pressed trousers and a wool sweater, just enough to keep away the chill that saturated the early morning air. Alfred blinked and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stood carefully. It vaguely pained Arthur to see the hesitant way with which he carried himself, as if on the point of folding over at any moment. There had been this same uncharacteristic uncertainty to his movements since the accident. It struck an unpleasant juxtaposition with the reckless boy he had been not months ago.

Alfred carefully slid on his glasses and accepted the clothes Arthur had brought him: military trousers nicked from Francis, and a white undershirt. He felt heat rush to his ears and stumbled to explain that he couldn't find anything nicer because he hadn't known the proper measurements. Alfred just smiled and stepped out of his hospital gown. Arthur flushed and looked away, though he felt extremely foolish immediately afterwards, all things considered. When had they become so unacquainted?

Alfred plucked his dog tags from his collar and ran one hand through his hair. He was grinning when Arthur turned to face him again, sucking on his lower lip.

"Alright, then," he said when the silence stretched on. "Ah, shall we?"

Alfred's grin only stretched. Arthur frowned. He could tell when he was being made fun of.

"Do shut up," he growled. "And come along."

Morning spilled over the horizon like a broken egg yolk, a flood of brilliant yellow that bathed the countryside as if it were a green china plate. The air was unseasonably mild and tasted like passing rain showers. Dew clung to the grass but, the road was dry and Arthur and Alfred immediately fell into an easy rhythm. One foot forwards, then the next, repeat, enough to get the blood pumping but not so much that they might miss the scenery. For the time being they didn't speak; Alfred was smiling blissfully and Arthur was struggling not to reflect the expression. At some point their hands intertwined, broke apart again, clung to each other by the index finger or the thumb. The sunlight gradually strengthened; the day was almost warm.

The infirmary had long been lost in the green velvet folds of the hills when Alfred turned and gave Arthur a curious smile with misted-over blue eyes like the sky on a cloudy day.

"Tell me, Arthur," he said softly, "what are the colors like? I always wanted to know."

Arthur felt a lump rise in his throat. Without thinking, he reached out and gripped Alfred's hand fiercely, pressing his thumb deep into the soft spot at the center of the palm.

"You can see that it's a beautiful day, of course," he said quietly. He feared that if he spoke too loudly his voice would shred and tear and flutter away in the breeze pockmarked and bruised. "Where would you like me to begin?"

Alfred briefly ran his thumb over Arthur's knuckles. "The sky, please, and then go down from there."

Arthur swallowed hard. "Of course." He paused, composing himself. "The blue is…it's like the saucers in that tea set that I liked so much, the one the nurses gave me for Christmas, do you recall?" Alfred nodded and Arthur bit down on his lower lip. "You know the color after it's just rained and everything is clear and saturated?" he continued. "Today the sky is almost like that, but softer. It's not as oppressive. It's somewhat…" He looked at his feet. "It's like your eyes."

Alfred beamed and dropped an easy kiss on his temple, just like that, as if it were nothing at all. Arthur felt his heart stammer. Alfred squeezed his hand.

"The countryside," continued Arthur, looking for a distraction. "It is unusually green. It strikes a laughable juxtaposition with the current situation, actually. Makes me wonder if this will be the year when the war finally comes to a close, or if it's just another spring. But it will give to a grey winter no matter what, I suppose." He paused. "Oh dear, you asked about colors and here I am waxing symbolic. Come along then, let's continue. It is the color of…oh, that canvas uniform the British officials tote around sometimes like they're something bloody special." Alfred chuckled and Arthur sighed, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Almost exactly that, if not a little lighter, more natural," he added. "At this distance the grass really looks like cloth, though."

"I can see that much," laughed Alfred, and Arthur colored brilliantly.

"Do forgive me, then!" he spluttered, dropping his hand in shame. "My fault for trying to help out. Give me some pointers or something next time, alright?"

Alfred immediately sobered. Suddenly there was an arm winding around Arthur's waist and fingers catching in his collar and then he was being kissed, gently but thoroughly, with the taste of the sun on his lips. Alfred pulled away and touched his cheek.

"Thank you," he murmured. "Please don't worry about it. Keep going."

Arthur breathed again and allowed his hand to be held. They were nearing the end of the paved road. Soon they would break into the winding trails that stitched tapestries of mud and dust through the countryside. The trees began to grow thicker; Arthur hoped to stumble upon a secluded clearing or meadow and take their lunch there. Privacy was imperative, though the idea brought heat to his ears.

"There are wildflowers," he observed at one point as they turned onto a slender dirt road, more out of surprise than anything else. "They're so early this year."

Alfred let go of his hand to crouch by the side of the road and pluck at bunch from a clump of grass; he returned and thrust them beneath Arthur's nose. A predictable stunt, but Arthur smiled even so.

"Describe them," demanded Alfred when he had bundled the impromptu bouquet into his arms. "Every different color, please. I want to know."

Arthur saw the look in his eyes and couldn't imagine saying no. He took a flower between his fingers and considered it for a moment.

"This one is like a little blotch of violet paint," he said eventually. Their pace had slowed so that they were barely strolling along the path; the sunlight poured through the overhanging branches of the trees in thick yellow bars. "It has a tiny golden center. Honestly, it looks like something out of a Monet." He smirked as Alfred pretended to understand the allusion. "This one…" He took a delicate white blossom between his index finger and his thumb. "Pure as a bridal gown." He winked and took another flower. "And this one is the same shade of pink as…as the nurse uniform back at the hospital, but less…repugnant, if you will."

They laughed clear and long. Another kiss landed on Arthur's forehead to be lost in his hair. The path narrowed and narrowed and the trees thickened overhead until they came to the cusp of a hill and looked out over a small meadow, surrounded by forest. Arthur smiled victoriously.

"Here will be lovely, won't it?" he said, glancing back over his shoulder as he led Alfred onto the grass. The ground gave slightly beneath their feet, still moist from the last night's rain. He set out the picnic blanket and basket while Alfred watched bemusedly.

"It was Francis, alright?" hissed Arthur in horror when he began to unload the food and discovered bread and cheese nicked from the military kitchen and cut into the shape of hearts. There were two flasks of straight scotch as well. "If I had known he was going to do this…"

Once Alfred had stopped laughing, he wiped at the corner of his eye and kissed Arthur on the tip of his nose. He settled down onto the blanket beside him and only barely managed to accept a sandwich without dissolving into hysterics again.

"You should've known better," he said around a mouthful, eyes dancing. His glasses were smudged with dust and humidity. Despite everything, Arthur felt a wave of fondness threaten to overcome his composure.

"I suppose," he managed, and swallowed to distract himself. Above the sky was like a circle of porcelain cut clean by the circle of trees. The sun was strong on their backs. At some point, Alfred unscrewed the flasks of scotch and they each drank gratefully. The alcohol was warm in their stomachs. Eventually Arthur found himself with his head pressed into the crook of Alfred's shoulder, their fingers intertwined on his knee. They spent some time like this, wound together beneath the steeping afternoon sun.

And then they were kissing, without much urgency, tasting the earth and the scotch on each other's lips. Alfred shifted forwards and drew Arthur onto his lap and reality began to melt away at the edges. Need began to sharpen the lazy movements of their hands, their mouths. Arthur dug his fingers into the soft hair at the nape of Alfred's neck, arched forwards as his arms looped securely around his waist, as the flat of his palm pressed into the small of his back. Another moment and they broke apart, breathing heavily.

Alfred made a vain attempt to adjust his glasses and grinned sheepishly up at Arthur when they immediately fell back askew over his nose. "I missed you," he said easily. Arthur swallowed.

"I know," he murmured. "I missed you, too." A moment of silence. He shifted over Alfred's thighs. He was already uncomfortable. It had been too long. Alfred began to smirk. His fingers drummed erratic rhythms up and down the bend of Arthur's spine.

"What's the plan?" he asked quietly, leaning upwards slightly. Arthur bit down on his lower lip.

"That depends," he said carefully, "on you."

Alfred gazed at him for a long moment, let his knuckles brush against his cheek, and then kissed him fiercely, opening his mouth and digging his fists into the fabric of his sweater. Arthur inhaled sharply and recovered himself in time to smile against his lips. His answer was perfectly understood.

Alfred had soon slid his hands beneath his sweater. His sweaty palms seemed to map the jutting planes of his back and shoulders, to drag him closer with every new coordinate discovered. Arthur cupped his cheeks and arched into the kiss so much that the edge of his glasses bit into his cheek. They laughed breathlessly and Arthur went to Alfred's neck, biting down softly at his singing jugular. He sighed in response and Arthur shivered. At some point his hands found their way beneath the ratty white military undershirt. A few more minutes of unbearably hot sun and they were both rid of their shirts.

Alfred inhaled sharply and Arthur leaned away, curious. He was staring down into his lap, biting on his lower lip. Arthur was puzzled for a moment, but then he looked beneath his own hands and saw the tapestry of scars, the pink and twisted portrait of war painted strikingly across Alfred's chest. He felt his throat constrict. He reached for Alfred's chin and lifted his face. No words were necessary. He stroked at his hair, kissed him softly, first on the forehead, then the tip of his nose, both eyelids, down his cheekbones, the strong square line of his jaw, both corners of his lips.

_Vanity is for foolish children. You are lovely._

Finally on the mouth, gentle at first, then frantic and reckless with love and relief.

Alfred broke the kiss to grip Arthur by the shoulders and press him gently into the picnic blanket. They stared at one another for a long moment, Alfred suspended above Arthur, chest heaving. The question in his eyes went unspoken; Arthur rolled over and retrieved what they needed from the picnic basket. Alfred was already desperate enough that he didn't bother to mock him for thinking ahead. He groaned quietly and dove for his throat. Arthur sighed and arched into him, cursing his trousers, his clunky shoes, his very socks themselves, innocent as they were.

After a few minutes more of ferocious kissing, Arthur fumbled for the button on Alfred's pants. They came down with a soft rustle and Alfred kicked them away, sneering as if they somehow offended him. His boots had disappeared when he returned. Arthur was already struggling from his trousers. He finally flung away his shoes and socks and collapsed back into Alfred's embrace with a soft groan of relief.

They kissed as Alfred pressed Arthur back into the picnic blanket and reached around to support his lower back as he spread his thighs, biting down on his lower lip. A pause, a moment of consideration, a whispered flurry of words of encouragement, and he began. Arthur dug his fingers into the flannel of the blanket to keep from showing his pain, but Alfred sensed his distress and frowned, taking away his finger.

"No," hissed Arthur, his voice roughened with pain and arousal and annoyance. "It has to be done; we'll have to do it. Get it over with."

Alfred glanced at him once, saw the determination in his eyes, and nodded. He began again, painstakingly. The process was as lengthy as it was mortifying. Arthur gasped and bit down on his lower lip and could do little else but scrabble at Alfred's shoulders until the pain had subsided. But finally, finally, he thought he might be ready, and gave a little nod. He didn't miss the hitch in Alfred's breath, the flush that spilled from his cheeks down his neck and shoulders. There was a long pause as he hovered between Arthur's thighs. Silence. Alfred ducked downwards for an instant; a fleeting kiss that stole what was left of the breath from Arthur's lungs. They began.

Arthur arched from the blanket with a gasp. In the dim recesses of his consciousness he wondered if the snap of his back was audible. He dug his fingernails almost savagely into the flesh at the small of Alfred's back, felt the desperate coil of his muscles, the labored rush of his breathing, the powerful undulation of his spine beneath his outstretched palm. His head fell backwards. He floundered for air and found none. He was dying. Alfred kissed him again, thirstily. He was parched. He kissed him back desperately. Another thrust of the hips; a dry crackling moan. How had the meadow become a desert?

And despite the burn in his lungs and the suffocating warmth of the afternoon and the sunshine that flowed thick and wet and unbearably hot between them, despite the erratic bump of Alfred's elbows against his thighs and the halfhearted scrabble of his own heels against his trembling hips, he felt impossibly wonderful. The afternoon softened at the corners and began to melt together like a soaked watercolor. Yellow and green and pink and purple blurred and streamed past them, poured over their bodies in pounding rivulets of color, flooded their noses and mouths and eyes. The sky seemed to close around them like a pouch of blue silk. The scar tissue beneath Arthur's hands, tracing blind pathways over the strong geometric planes of Alfred's back and shoulders, twisted away. The war disappeared.

They were the only two things that existed in the entire world.

Alfred came with a soft groan that sounded almost disbelieving. He bit down on his lower lip and shut his eyes and shivered into Arthur's shoulder. A moment passed and then his hand was wrapped around his cock, clumsy but consuming. Arthur felt himself snap forwards without meaning to. His shins began to slip from Alfred's shoulders; a few more long strokes and he was finished. Helpless with love, he grabbed Alfred around the neck and kissed him desperately until they were both breathless and returned to the world where the war was real and they each had duties to fulfill, but could still take a moment for each other's arms every once in a while.

That was alright, Arthur decided. Their world was alright.

Some time passed. Alfred propped himself up on one elbow and grinned at him sloppily. Arthur rolled his eyes and reached out to fix his glasses. They only fell out of place again. They both laughed. At some point, they kissed again, lazily. Arthur found it quite the challenge to stop smiling. Contentment was soft surrounding them; it clung to their minds and their muscles with sleepy fingers. Eventually, they both sat up and gathered their clothing with considerable difficulty. The sunlight had turned bronze. The afternoon was draining away like golden water in the porcelain blue basin of the sky.

They walked back through the countryside with their hands joined as if melted together by the sun. Only when they crested the lip of the hill and gazed back down upon the network of roads and cottages and military bases, stitched and nestled safely into the rolls of green, did Arthur truly understand what he and Alfred had done. He came to a stop at the edge of the hill with his heart stammering. He pressed his thumb into Alfred's palm, almost uncertainly. Alfred looked at him for a long moment before he smiled and lifted their intertwined hands to press a kiss to each knuckle.

"The colors, Arthur," he sighed after what seemed an eternity and an instant of silence all at once. His eyes were soft and hard as crystals and sad and overjoyed. He was a juxtaposition merely by existing. "The colors, please."

Arthur held his breath. He didn't know why. "What about them?"

"Please," replied Alfred quietly, squeezing his hand. "Please tell me what are the colors like now."

* * *

><p><strong>AN –<strong> Again, my apologies for not replying to all the lovely comments on the last chapter. Life has been biting me in the ass as of late. I truly appreciate every single one. You guys are too wonderful for words.

As always, enormous thanks to Trumpet-Geek, the brave provider of the historical backbone of this fic.

And of course, **thank you all** so much for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

**AN –** Wow, again, please forgive the tremendous delay on this installment. In addition, I feel very bad for not replying to _any _reviews, especially because you guys left some particularly lovely ones on the last chapter. I know that a mass thank-you is not nearly so gratifying, and you deserve personal replies, but…thank you so much, each and every one of you. My spring break is coming up very soon and I intend to wrap up this project then. No more gaps between updates, promise.

I sincerely hope you enjoy.

* * *

><p>Two days after D-Day, two days after the tide broke on the shore of Normandy and carried the first spray of victory into Europe, two days after Francis wept with joy and Matthew smiled and pressed his palm and dropped a kiss on his temple when he thought nobody was looking, two days after Arthur finally began to hope again, two days, two days, and a telegram arrived for Alfred.<p>

Arthur sat at the bedside as Alfred's brow furrowed and his eyes darkened. He could not help the fear that rose in his throat. As of late everything had seemed too peaceful and it would only be fitting that the war might send them another tragedy in the form of that slender sheet of yellowed paper. Agonized, he pressed Alfred to explain, despite his pained expression.

Finally, Alfred leaned back with a tired sigh, his hair a spray of gold against the pillowcase, and let the paper flutter into his lap.

"They want to give me a medal," he mumbled. His voice was heavy as if someone had died. Arthur stared in confusion. Alfred didn't speak. They were silent for an aching interval.

"Congratulations," prompted Arthur eventually, when curiosity had got the best of consideration. Alfred's mouth twisted and his eyes hardened. He turned his cheek against the pillow.

"Are you trying to be funny?" The words emerged dull and lifeless. Arthur leaned over and snatched the paper from his lap. To Alfred Jones. Congratulations. Medal. Service. Sacrifice. He read the words again and again as if between the lines of orderly black print he could find the reasoning behind Alfred's blank expression. Finally, he folded the paper crisply along the creases and set it on the nightstand beside the teetering pile of old books.

"Alright, I give up," he said. "Why the face?" He leaned forwards slightly. He wanted to take Alfred by the chin and get a proper look at his face, but the nurses were floating about and he didn't want to draw their attention. "What is it?"

Alfred turned slowly and looked at him with such an expression that Arthur was suddenly drawn back through the months to a similar beside, speaking with a similar young man who was caught in a similar situation. Indeed, in Alfred's eyes Arthur saw the Matthew from the early spring when he was still injured, watched again as he clutched the telegram in his fists, furious because he thought he did not deserve such an honor for nothing more than being shot down, because he believed that his brother deserved more, infinitely more. In the back of his mind Arthur vaguely registered the irony.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said, quietly because he didn't want to make a scene, but nonetheless with the force of a shout. His fingers curled into Alfred's collar and drew his face up slightly. "Oh, please don't be ridiculous. Don't you dare make that face. Not to me." He shook him slightly. "How can you possibly think that you don't deserve such a thing?"

Alfred looked at him in surprise for a long moment before his expression was seized by a fierce light again.

"You're wrong; that's not it." Despite himself Arthur was relieved to hear the life returned to his voice. "That's not it at all."

Arthur gave him another shake, just enough to jar his glasses across the bridge of his nose. "Then what on Earth could it possibly be?"

Alfred squared his shoulders. He was digging in his heels. So be it. "It's that it's not the point," he said cryptically. Arthur furrowed his brow in confusion. Alfred sighed and pushed up his glasses with his index finger.

"Winning medals isn't the point of war," he began, "and winning medals doesn't justify anything. To be honest, I don't want it. I just don't want it. I don't need some symbol. I know who I am. I know what I've done. I know what's happened to me. I don't want it. To have a medal would just mean…" His voice wavered almost imperceptibly. "To have a medal would just mean that it would be harder to forget," he whispered, "and I don't want that. I don't want a reminder pinned on my breast pocket. It was all…it was all bad enough. And to be honest…well, it still is. Bad enough. And I don't want that. I don't want a medal." He lifted his face to meet Arthur's gaze. His expression was stubborn, his eyes firm. But everything was impossibly heavy with profound grief. "I just don't want it."

Arthur was silent for a long moment. He slowly released Alfred's collar and leaned back in his stool at the side of the bed. "Oh, Alfred," he murmured.

It was uncommon by that point that Alfred should spend anything more than an hour or two resting. He had nearly recovered entirely, and had since taken to snatching Arthur into corners and kissing the life from him before skipping off in the opposite direction, snickering as though he had just gotten away with some dreadful crime, when really all he had accomplished was rumpling Arthur's hair and leaving him vaguely agitated for the rest of the day. He glowed with life again, and had recovered much of his old enthusiasm. He and Matthew cracked jokes and smoked on the balcony, he and Francis bickered about the details of their escape and American military tactics, and he had developed the habit of dropping winks at Elizaveta whenever she whirled past. He was still alive, and Arthur had begun to hope that the scars were only superficial. But at that moment Alfred looked entirely drained, as gaunt and exhausted as he had the day he arrived back in the infirmary, broken and bleeding and clutching at Arthur as though his life depended on it.

"Oh, Alfred," repeated Arthur. "You don't have to take it." He felt like he was making a promise to a small child. "Nobody will make you take it. I'll make sure of it. Nobody." He reached out to stroke his hair from his forehead, no longer caring for the attentions of the nurses. "Nobody."

Alfred looked at him cautiously. All his fierceness had melted away against Arthur's fingertips. He spoke tentatively and his voice was small.

"You don't think I'm being silly?"

Arthur wanted to laugh, but his voice emerged on a sigh instead. "Of course I do. You're being absolutely ridiculous." He smiled. "But that's alright. You're allowed. If you don't want to take the medal, if it will somehow cause you pain, then please, don't." His voice dropped. "You don't need any more pain, and besides…" He let his smile curl into a grin. "You're an enormous child, and I'd really prefer not to have to deal with nursing you anymore. Not, at least, when there are so many more interesting activities which we could pursue."

And Alfred smiled, and stole a kiss in plain view of the entire infirmary (though nobody looked), but the telegram still rested on the nightstand, and the officer would still come with the medal in three days. It was only a matter of refusing when he arrived. But the question remained. And when he thought Arthur had turned his back, Alfred couldn't help but to gaze at the slip of paper and let a strange empty expression consume his face.

* * *

><p>They day afterwards, Arthur was away. A neighboring base had recently lost their senior doctor, and he had been called away to lend his seasoned hand on one of the more serious cases. He would only be gone from morning to afternoon, but nevertheless he drilled Francis nonstop on standard procedure for nearly a week beforehand, and stayed up late into the night watching over his own patients with a sharp gaze and self-important air that almost lent him the appearance of an owl. Alfred had volunteered to keep track of the documents that came and went every day, and he had been strictly instructed in what was apparently a very specific process.<p>

The infirmary was uneventful, quiet and sleepy as it was most always, and so mid-morning found Alfred and Francis hunched over the desk in Arthur's office, doing paperwork between the tumblers of gin and the radio that hadn't been moved for months. It was a clear day and sunlight came in strong through the window, warming their backs and glittering from the fine-cut crystal confines of the glasses. Elizaveta was at work and Matthew was out entertaining himself in some way or another. Unfortunately, it was still much too early to drink.

At some point, Alfred put down his pen and leaned back in his chair, tipping his chin so that the sun spilled over his face. Francis looked up from his work curiously. The light glinted from Alfred's glasses, casting little spots of yellow on the far wall.

"England is enjoying an unusually fair summer, it would seem," commented Francis idly. Alfred grunted his acknowledgement, stretching his arms towards the window until his bones popped softly.

"You can say that again," he murmured. "How ironic."

Francis chuckled. "Indeed. But nevertheless pleasant for ourselves."

Alfred was quiet for a moment. "I suppose."

The conversation faded and Francis went back to his work, jotting down his initials for the umpteenth time and marking symptoms over and over again. When he did not hear the answering scrabble of Alfred's pen for some time, he looked up again. Alfred was watching him with an unreadable expression. Francis blinked and tilted his head to the side.

Alfred sighed and turned so that he was staring at the bookcases that lined the far wall.

"How often…" He bit down on his lower lip. "How often do you think about it?"

Francis put his pen back down. "About what?"

Alfred sighed again and met his gaze. His expression was blank. Francis understood.

"Ah. Well." He wove his fingers together and balanced his chin atop the steeple shape they formed. "I have seen so much more than you, my boy, so there is much more to draw my thoughts away, and everything seems less and less unsettling every time. Even so, I must admit that I think about it often, of course. Very often. In fact, not an hour passes when it is not on my mind." He shrugged. "But as they say, _c'est la vie. _I fear that such is our lot in life, dear boy. I am sure that Matthew would give you the same answer."

Alfred drew a shuddering breath. "I don't think…" His voice wavered. "How much I…how much I think about it…I don't think it's…alright. It's too much. It shouldn't be so much. I can't concentrate anymore. I can barely think about anything else."

Francis was quiet for a long moment, too surprised to speak. It did not surprise him that Alfred was so shaken – in fact, he had suspected as much for a long time – but rather that he had chosen Francis as a confidant instead of Arthur. Francis scrutinized his face and wondered if he was ashamed. In the end, such was the only explanation he could imagine.

"Go on," he said, carefully, deliberating over every syllable. Silence for a long moment, and then Alfred swallowed.

"It wasn't like this at the beginning," he said in a rushed exhale. "I was fine. I was just glad to be back, glad to see Arthur. Oh man, I was so glad to see Arthur. And Matthew, too, of course. It was wonderful to see him alive and well, but…I was so glad for Arthur, glad for Arthur most of all. That he still…that he…that we could…" He shook his head. "Well, that doesn't matter much, anyways. I started to get better, and everything was going to be alright. The war even started to look up. But then I…but then I started to remember everything. Don't get me wrong; it wasn't like I had forgotten anything in the first place. That would be impossible. It was just that I hadn't had the time to remember. And then, all of a sudden, I was remembering. And I…I haven't been able to stop since then." He swallowed again, convulsively. The blank expression had faded to be replaced by fear. "And now I'm worried I won't be able to stop ever again."

Francis shut his eyes in sympathy. "You mean the war, do you not? You mean when you were injured, and when we were running, and everything that happened. You can't stop remembering that."

Alfred nodded miserably. His hands were trembling. "And the worst part is," he managed. "Arthur has started to realize." An edge of panic crept into his voice. "Arthur has started to realize, and if he asks, if he ever knows…I don't know…I just don't know what I'll do…he can't know…" His hands formed fists on the arms of the chair. "Oh, he can't know; I can't let him see this…he can't see me so…" His voice became very small. "He just can't see me so weak."

Francis gazed at Alfred evenly. "Arthur is a doctor. It is his job to see people when they are at their weakest, their worst."

Alfred shook his head violently. "Not me," he said. His voice tore over every other syllable. "He can't see me. Not me."

Francis frowned. "Why? Because you love him?"

Alfred fell silent and simply stared at him. His hands stopped trembling and his fists uncurled on the arms of the chair. His jaw slackened. His chest was heaving. His mouth formed a thin line.

"Maybe," he managed finally. "Maybe that's why."

Francis rolled his eyes. "If that's truly the case, then you are an exceptional fool. He loves you, too. Or haven't you realized it? You should have seen him while you were still recovering. He was almost ridiculous, half out of his mind with worry and relief at the same time." He allowed himself a brief fond smile. "Look, Alfred. I have known Arthur Kirkland for far too many years, and I can tell you that he loves you more than I have ever seen him love anything. And he does not give his heart away easily. One has to earn it in some way or another. I don't know how, and judging by your expression, I would say that neither do you." He chuckled gently. "But you have. And it is a priceless treasure. So let him help you. He may not seem like the type, but he will. And he will be glad in the long run. So swallow your pride."

Alfred drew in another trembling breath and the firm line of his lips melted. His eyes gleamed and he wiped at them frantically with the back of his hand.

"It's that I'm afraid," he whispered. "I don't want to disappoint him."

Francis leaned across the desk and covered Alfred's hand with his own.

"Frankly, _mon cher," _he murmured. "That's impossible."

* * *

><p>Arthur returned in the late afternoon with dust and the sun in his hair and bloodstains on his elbows. His face was crumpled with exhaustion but he did not look unhappy. The work had been a success and the patient would be fine. Quite the lucky bloke, Arthur commented wearily as he shed his medical coat. He promptly told Francis that he could deal with everything for the rest of the day for all he cared, because he himself could barely move a finger anymore. The subliminal message was more evident, however: his eyes read that he needed some gin. He disappeared into his office and Francis watched contentedly, with moderate amusement, as Alfred put down his book, leaned back from the counter, and adjusted his glasses.<p>

The door of the office suddenly swung ajar again and Arthur's head reappeared in the gap, eyes crackling for a moment. Alfred jumped and his glasses nearly slid from the bridge of his nose to the floor. Then he smiled and followed into the office, casting a fleeting glance over his shoulder as he went. Finally the door closed. Francis chuckled and bent back over his clipboard. He would not have said no to a gin himself, but he had the good sense not to interfere.

He was nearly halfway through a pile of forms that was as tedious as it was enormous when Matthew appeared at the counter, leaning on his elbows so that he could crane his chin to get a glance at what Francis was writing. He was wearing canvas army trousers and a white shirt. His dog tags caught the sickly light. At the base of his neck Francis noticed the soft pink trace of an old burn, surely just a whisper of what the wound once was, but nevertheless unsettling.

He spoke in French because he missed the language more than even he preferred to admit, and knew Matthew would understand. He could even reply, although with that dreadful Quebecois accent of his. "Good afternoon," said Francis easily. He had never found himself prey to pretenses with Matthew. He supposed it was one of the strange spells the boy cast. "And what brings you here, my dear?"

Matthew smiled that same gentle smile as always, and Francis had to turn his head so as not to immediately reflect it and embarrass himself.

"Nothing." A pause. Francis heard Matthew inhale. Then came the exhale, with his breath catching almost imperceptibly. "So you've spoken with my brother."

Francis paused, his pen poised halfway down the page, caught in the middle of scribbling down an initial. Something in his chest crumpled quietly. He had tried very hard. Matthew was special. Matthew was special and Francis had tried very hard to treat Matthew well and respectably. He had worked to not frighten him away, to show him that France was more than a land of pink champagne and silk sheets and empty perfumed envelopes. It seemed that in the end he had failed. He grit his teeth.

"Yes. I have."

Matthew was quiet for an agonizing moment. Then he cleared his throat. He shifted from one foot to the other and his dog tags clinked gently together. The collar of his shirt pulled so that another glimpse of the pink scar was visible. He knit his fingers together.

"Thank you." He was stammering faintly over the words. "Thank you, I mean, for helping him. I really hated seeing him like that and I think you should know that I…well anyways, it's good that you…I'm happy that…you know, it's really incredible…" He sighed in exasperation and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, thank you so much. I'm…I'm so grateful. You really can't know. Thank you."

Francis stared. Whatever had crumpled in his chest sprung back to life in the form of his heartbeat, racing in his ears as it had not done in all his life, or at least for as long as he could remember. For the first time since he could speak, he was at a loss for words. He felt that even his beloved mother tongue could not do justice to the whirring of his mind. He helplessly murmured that Matthew was quite welcome and that it had really been no trouble at all and then fell silent. For a long moment they stared at one another, evidently wordless.

Matthew glanced around himself and rolled his eyes, apparently towards no one in particular.

"Brave soldier, my ass," he mumbled in clear English. Then he jolted across the counter and kissed Francis, quickly, without much force, although his fingers tangled momentarily into his hair. Even so, he moved away before Francis could even think of how to respond. All in all the kiss was clumsy and jarring and unexpected and not romantic or perfumed or premeditated with chilled glasses of champagne and a long moonlit stroll on a river in late spring when the air was heavy and sweet and conductive to love.

They smiled at each other breathlessly because nonetheless it meant the world.

* * *

><p>Arthur was already at the cabinet mixing drinks when Alfred ventured into the office. He shut the door and clicked the lock because Arthur was obviously exhausted, and did not want to be disturbed. Even so he looked somewhat refreshed already, framed as he was against the window with the late afternoon sunlight coloring the walls buttery yellow and winding thick strands of gold into his hair. The fading rays caught against the glasses as he poured the gin and the fragments of light reflected haphazardly into his eyes, like the tiniest chips of gold. Alfred stood leaning against the door for a time, engrossed in watching Arthur grow completely absorbed in his work. Even with such a simple task he was lost, totally concentrated on the tilt of the shaker and the miniature waterfall of gin that arched into the tiny mountain of ice in the bottom of the glass.<p>

Finally, Arthur deftly cut two slices of lime and balanced them on the rims of the glasses, giving a brief smile of satisfaction at his handiwork. It was only then that he looked up and noticed Alfred still pressed against the door. He tilted his head to the side and Alfred smiled faintly and went to the window seat, accepting a glass on the way. He drank immediately and so thirstily that Arthur raised an eyebrow, impressed. Alfred shrugged and wiped at the corner of his lips somewhat sheepishly. He had not stopped thinking about what Francis had said the entire day and would need a little extra help in order to follow his advice.

Arthur sat down beside him and balanced his glass on his knee. After a moment his head came to rest on his shoulder and he reached for his hand, persisting until their fingers wound together closely. Alfred exhaled slowly and took another deep gulp of his drink, conflicted. Arthur was not usually willing to draw so near and he wanted badly to be able to enjoy the moment. But Arthur was only tired and in the morning his suspicion would return. At this point he was at least content, with the warmth of the sun at his back and stiff gin in his hand, so perhaps he would be more pliable, less sharp.

Nevertheless Alfred was afraid. Arthur was nothing if not judgmental, and never before had he spared Alfred from his opinion merely due to affection. And of course Alfred was helplessly in love with his directness, and in any other situation would not have him any other way. But even so he was afraid. He trusted Arthur, but love works strange ideas into the imagination, and he was plagued with doubt. Still, he shifted forwards, set his drink of the windowsill, and adjusted his glasses. Arthur looked at him curiously and he managed to meet his eyes.

"Arthur," he said, and the words sounded thick, clogged. He spoke directly because he could think of no other way to say what he had to. He honestly reckoned that otherwise the words would fail him and perhaps he would never dare to try ever again. "Arthur, I want to tell you what happened."

Arthur blinked confusedly before he seemed to understand and his eyebrows drew upwards. "What happened..?" His lips parted slightly. "Surely you don't mean, surely not…while you were…"

Alfred cut him off with a nod. "I do." He paused, nervously. "If you're…if you're willing to listen, that is."

"Alfred," said Arthur quietly, and to his surprise Alfred suddenly found his hands quite overflowing with Arthur twining their fingers so closely together that they became quite confused with one another, full with Arthur pressing his palms almost ferociously with a curious fierce light in his eyes. "I have been waiting to listen since you first came back."

Alfred dropped his gaze to their joined hands. His glasses slipped but he did not bother to push them up. He slowly traced the slender arc of bone that went from one of Arthur's knuckles to his wrist, trying to find the right words with which to begin.

"I fell from the sky," he said finally, without expecting that his voice would emerge aloud. Arthur only tightened his grip on his hands. Alfred swallowed. He did not look at Arthur because he was sure that if he did he would lose all heart to continue.

"I fell from the sky," he repeated, "and you'd be surprised by how long it takes to fall when you think you're gonna die at the end. It took so long that while I was falling I got to think about a lot of things. I thought a little bit about dying, but not as much as you'd reckon somebody would. Really I thought mostly about home. My mom. Matthew." A pause. "And you most of all, and last, like I was avoiding you because I didn't want to think about…well. The point is that I remember thinking about you last, and then it was black. I went out like a light."

He fell quiet; he needed a moment to draw up more memories from the murk that had had settled into the bottom of his mind. Arthur waited silently.

"I don't know how long I was unconscious," began Alfred again, although of course that much was obvious from the beginning, since there had been no one in the wilderness of France to watch and tell him how many minutes hours day weeks passed before his eyes fluttered open again. "But when I woke up I was amazed that I hadn't died, and then I was furious for the same reason, because I thought there was no way I could survive anyways, and just now death would be a lot slower and more painful and there would be more time to think, which was the worst part because I didn't want to think about you because it would hurt a lot more than any…than any wound…" He stopped, and grimaced. "Christ, I'm verging on poetic and I don't even…maybe I should just…" He pulled a hand free and exasperatedly adjusted his glasses. "Maybe I should just stop right here…"

Arthur frowned and grabbed his hand back, pressing it fiercely. "Don't you dare," he said, quietly but forcefully in the way only he could. "Tell me everything you can, everything you want. Anything. I need to hear it. I want to hear it." And he kissed him briefly but ferociously, tasting of gin. Alfred stared, then swallowed and wound their fingers together again.

"Alright. So I lay there for a while feeling like shit. Then I got hungry and most of all thirsty and thought I might drag myself around a bit, maybe take a shot at surviving, for whatever it was worth." His eyes grew distant and his voice dropped. "It was…I can't…the pain was like you wouldn't believe. I don't think anybody should have to feel that. But I found some water and I managed to eat something. Grass, maybe, I can't remember what. I pulled myself a little further until I collapsed. I must have left a trail of blood that could be seen from the sky. Miracle I wasn't captured, really." And he gave a hoarse, mirthless chuckle. Arthur was silent, listening, though his expression had grown blank.

"I don't know how long that lasted. Don't care to know. Don't care to remember. Don't care to talk about it much. I probably won't ever again, unless they force me to." He bit down on his lower lip at the idea. "But anyways, the Frenchies found me eventually and they took me back to their base. Francis says that I was in and out of consciousness, and that I threw up a lot. He also says that I asked for Matthew, and for you. You more often. Makes sense, I guess. Even though I was still trying not to think about…you." He sighed. "That never worked very well, anyways."

Arthur pressed his palm almost imperceptibly. And Alfred even managed a thin smile.

"Anyways, once I could stand, and even walk around, things started to get better. It wasn't so bad because by then I knew I wasn't going to die right then and there. I would at least live for a while longer. Until they had to move me, I reckoned. And that was alright until…until they told me about you. Francis said he knew you. And he did. What a coincidence. I couldn't believe it. It seemed impossible. Too much luck. Yeah, things started to look up." He swallowed. "Things started to look up, and I had to live. Suddenly I had to live. Not for myself or anything like that. Not for glory. I had forgotten about those things. I had to live…" He paused, swallowed again, stared out the window because he couldn't look anywhere else. "I had to live to see you again."

The room was entirely silent. Arthur did not seem to so much as breathe. His face was tilted downwards and Alfred couldn't see his expression. He cleared his throat.

"And so things got desperate again. But once they let me talk to you…well, you know, that made it all right to go on. Keep trying. That radio gave me the strength to do it. It's hard, after your body's been so hurt and you're in a strange place with strange people and…well, it's hard to keep going, and without your voice over the radio, I don't know…" He smiled ruefully. "I must have seemed a lot more cheerful than I felt, because Francis never worried for me. He was busy. And before I knew it, we were leaving."

His eyes grew distant for the second time, as if darting between the undergrowth in the forest of France with a gun balanced on his shoulder, pursued by soldiers that were nothing more than shadows in the thick of the trees, with the air ruptured by the tear and scream of bullets.

"That was when things got bad again."

Arthur was silent as Alfred told him about the men who were running beside him at one moment and the next falling to their knees, teetering forwards onto the grass with a stain of red pooling around them. Arthur was silent as Alfred quietly recounted the hum of the shrapnel, the searing hiss of the bullets like drops of water in hot oil, the dark of the forest and the thick clouds of smoke that billowed upwards towards the sky until it was blanketed in grey. Arthur was silent as Alfred dipped his head and spoke so softly that he could barely be heard, remembering the young man who had lurched in front of him and taken a bullet in the stomach that would have otherwise left him dead. His voice trembled when he recalled how he had no choice but to leave the kid – he was no more than eighteen, so young - gasping and burbling over with blood in a furrow, pillowed by the grass to die with his wan and yellowing face tilted towards the sky as if in prayer.

Arthur was silent as the story finally drew to a close and he was silent for a long time afterwards. He did not say as word as Alfred hung in suspense and watched him carefully, did not say a word as he fidgeted with their still-joined hands, winding his fingers in and out and around, and testing soft spot at Arthur's palm with his thumb. Really this time did not last very long, but it seemed an eternity to both of them. Arthur was brilliant for words. He could read and write and spin sentences into gorgeous delicate shapes that amazed people. But he was not brilliant for these types of words. Few people were.

And so he did not speak. Instead he reached up and wrapped his arms around Alfred and kept him there with the sun at their backs fading into evening. They did not move until the inconstant color of dusk bruised the windowpane and the walls of the office grey and blue and purple. Then Alfred shifted and the slightest tremor ran through his body. Then he was shaking, racked with dry sobs that seemed to overtake his entire body. He dug his fingers frantically into Arthur's shirt and burrowed deep into the crook at the conjunction of his shoulder and collarbone, gasping into his skin as if he had not breathed in months. Perhaps, Arthur considered as he held him and rested his chin atop his head, he really hadn't.

"It hasn't gone away," sobbed Alfred at one point. There were no tears and the sounds were parched and rasping. "It hasn't gone away, not in all this time."

Arthur stroked his hair. "I know. I know. It's alright. Alfred. _Alfred._" He reached down and cupped his face in both hands, looking him firmly in the eyes. "Alfred, it's alright. It's okay. Hush." And despite himself, his voice softened and he chuckled. "Oh, look at you. Stop shaking so much. It's okay. I promise. Hush."

He leaned forwards and kissed Alfred on the forehead, his eyelids, the tip of his nose, both cheeks, and very lightly on the bow of his upper lip. He felt the tremors began to ease off and crooned encouragement. Another kiss, fleeting, on his lips. Then just against his chin, a whisper at the bend of his jaw. Finally Arthur reached up and took off his spectacles. The frames were fogged from exertion. He smiled tenderly. Alfred stared at him helplessly, still seizing with a dry sob every now. Arthur slipped his glasses back on and stroked his temples.

"It won't go away, Alfred," he murmured. "I'm sorry. You're going to have to live with it." Then he took his face and kissed him properly, firmly, until he softened and responded, letting his hands relax to press warm against his back. Arthur pulled away after a long moment and gently ran his fingertips along Alfred's cheek.

"You're going to have to live with it," he repeated, "but that doesn't mean you won't be able to live.

Two days later the medal arrived. For all the trouble it brought of course it was nothing more than a tiny piece of brass secured to a ribbon. And in the end Alfred kept it, although he would never wear it. To him such things were useless. When war is real, he explained, you stop fighting for glory. You forget about all that. When war is real, you fight only to live, and not even for your own sake. You fight for those who are waiting for you back at home, at the stove or in the armchair or perhaps clutching the radio receiver to their ear as though it were a lifeline.

When war is real, murmured Alfred as he pressed the medal back into its box and stowed it away in the drawer of the bedside table, you live to see the people who love you again, you live for that and nothing else.

* * *

><p><strong>AN <strong>– I couldn't find an opportunity here, butwe'll be getting some sexytiems next chapter, don't worry.

Wow but this chapter feels really dumb to me sigh.

As always, my thanks to the lovely Trumpet-Geek, who represents the proper history behind this otherwise hopelessly sappy little story.

And of course, the deepest of all gratitude goes to you lovely readers, who have put up with me so far. Such is truly an incredible feat. Bravo. Thank you so much.

Until next time!


	13. Chapter 13

**AN -** Oh man, so sorry about the wait. I have no excuses. Unfortunately the next chapter (the penultimate, I might add!) will probably take a month, as I'm going away to camp for a long time in the interim. Thanks for sticking on this project even though I suck at updating a whole lot. I hope you enjoy!

**Last note -** If ffnet ends up purging this story due to explicit content, I will re-post on my AO3. You can find me under the same name!

* * *

><p>At the end of the summer they decided the inevitable. They were going to America.<p>

The decision came about in the middle of one of the late golden evenings when they would stand on the balcony of the infirmary to smoke and feel the fading sun in their hair, smell the grass and the soft earth before autumn sunk into the trees and the sky, be alone with one another and nobody else, no world, no war, nothing. Alfred liked Britain, and so did Matthew, and they were both in love, but the countryside was a constant reminder. Anyone could see the exhaustion in their eyes even past their genuine smiles, their laughter, the long nights spent with warm beer and old stories. It wasn't fair.

And of course Arthur loved Britain. For a long time she had been the dearest thing to his heart, she and the protection of her people, the strong blood that flowed through his very veins. Arthur loved Britain dearly indeed. But now there was something he loved more. Alfred was happy, but it wasn't enough. Each day away from home was a toll. He needed his motherland to truly heal. And Arthur, as a doctor, and as someone who loved him more than anyone, anything else in the world, wanted nothing more than that.

So that evening he tapped the ash from his cigarette, turned to Alfred, and wasted no time in saying it, in prettying his words.

"We'll go to America." Easily. Alfred exhaled a long stream of smoke and turned slowly, disbelievingly. He straightened his glasses. His lips parted slightly.

"America?" He swallowed visibly. "What do you mean?"

Arthur shook his head. "You need to go home. You can't stay much longer here, anyways, and that brother of yours has already long overstayed his welcome. It's been a pain to find excuses for him. And besides, you're tired. You need something familiar. I'm a doctor. I know." He smiled gently. "But I certainly won't be parted from you again. We'll both go to America. I have some friends at Harvard. They can find me a job."

Alfred stared. "At Harvard? Arthur, it's not easy to find a job at Harvard, of all places."

Arthur rolled his eyes and took a drag on his cigarette. "They're _very _good friends, let me assure you." He glanced up through a cloud of smoke. "Look, I know Boston isn't not close to home for you, but we can arrange for an apartment in the city and head to Virginia on the weekends for a while. Believe it or not, I haven't spent much of my government paycheck over these past few years. I don't need very much. I've got a lot saved up. We can do this, I swear, and it won't be so…" Alfred was shaking his head. Arthur swallowed. A lump stuck in his throat. "Look, if it's a matter of living with me, I - "

"No!" Alfred slapped a hand to his forehead. "No, Arthur that's not the point, that's not the point at all. I love you. I want to be with you. How could you even think anything else? It's just that…" He sighed. "It's just that this whole thing doesn't seem very fair. Asking you to up and leave all this behind, your country, everything…just for me…" He glanced away. "I'm not sure if I can live with it."

Arthur wanted to slap him, kiss him. But he only sighed. "Oh, you're such a fool." He paused, tugged at his cigarette again. "I want to do this. For you. For me. I love you, too, after all." They didn't say it very often and he stumbled a bit over the unfamiliar shape of the words. "I'm a doctor, and I want to heal you all the way. Not just mostly. It's not a sacrifice."

Alfred stared at his hands. "Are you sure?" His voice was strained, trying to suppress hope. Arthur put a hand on his arm.

"Never been more sure of anything in my life. Please, Alfred. For me. Say yes."

Alfred turned to him and his eyes were shining, catching the late afternoon sunlight, spilling over with gold. He took of his glasses, rubbed at the frames, put them back on. He took Arthur's face in his hands.

"Thank you, Arthur." A kiss that tasted like summer, tobacco, happiness. "Thank you so much, for everything you've done. You're impossible, you know that?"

Arthur smiled, touched his cheek, overwhelmed by sentiment and laid prone to uncharacteristic gestures. "Maybe. So are you."

They kissed again, and Alfred rested his head on the top of Arthur's hair, and let the words fall into his hair, carried by a sigh.

"We're going to America."

* * *

><p>They told Matthew and he smiled, congratulated them. Then Alfred asked if he was coming, too, back to Canada, at least, and he looked away with a blush blooming across his cheeks. He mumbled that he didn't know. Alfred stared. Arthur had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. It had occurred to him the moment Matthew's eyes had widened and his cheeks had flooded crimson.<p>

"I…I don't really have the same national affinity as you," he was mumbling, staring determinedly at his hands. "So it's not that important to me, and I was thinking of spending some time…oh, I don't know…"

Arthur smiled. Best to show the boy some sympathy. "The Resistance could always use an extra member, especially in times like these."

Matthew stared at him, his mouth slightly ajar, before he seemed to recover himself and nodded, still blushing fiercely. "Yes, Arthur knows what I mean."

Alfred was silent for a long moment before he let out a cry of realization, slapped a hand over his mouth, and grinned past his own fingers. "Oh, I see how it is."

Matthew glared. "Like you can talk."

Alfred shrugged and slung an arm over Arthur's shoulders playfully, even more of his brash old self since they had begun to organize the trip, shaking the dust from old friendships and connections to get a ride on a cargo ship or supply plane, perhaps along with some negotiators or politicians, because it wasn't exactly easy to just up and meander across the Atlantic Ocean at the end of the greatest war in history. Fortunately Arthur knew a great deal of people and their chances seemed promising. In fact, it was likely that they would embark before the first whisper of autumn on the countryside.

But Matthew would stay. He fit into Europe as though he had been ripped away at birth and left an empty space behind. He blended easily into the fabric of ancient language and custom, tired monarchies and tall ladies with hidden smiles and cocktail glasses woven between their fingers. He looked good at Francis' side, lent him a quiet sense of equilibrium, without even trying, and smiled and blushed, bent like a willow frond, at the slightest glance. He belonged there. It was even good for him.

But not for Alfred. Alfred was bright and inventive and new; he tried to seize the day in his bare hands even if the sunlight burned his fingers, he barreled through life without looking back, thinking of consequences, a dangerous but sometimes brilliant approach.

* * *

><p>A quiet night, sharing Arthur's bed, caught in the dreamy state just between sleep and waking, the shadows long and soft, ruptured only by the low light of the lamp that swung gently from the ceiling. Alfred pressed his face into his shoulder and Arthur felt the suggestion of his lips, ran his fingers through his hair once, twice.<p>

"Where will we live?" asked Alfred absently. Arthur stiffened, and Alfred kissed his shoulder more determinedly, pressed his palm into the curve of his hip. It was chaste; they were tired, mumbling nonsense to each other in the penumbra, or at least it was nonsense until now.

"Boston, remember? Or do you mean downtown or countryside?" Arthur turned over to get a look at him. "To be honest, I'd much prefer to be downtown to be close to the medical school. My old mate might even swing me a position at the hospital."

Alfred was quiet for a moment. "You'd be busy."

Arthur chuckled. "Of course I would. So would you. We have to work; you can't be injured forever." He pressed his lips into his hair. "Alfred, why are you bringing this up, at any rate? We've got a while off. Before we go, I mean."

Alfred looked up at him, eyes large and clear in the dark, unabashedly blue without his glasses.

"I like thinking about it." He was so honest. Arthur envied him for that, and loved him, of course. "It's nice to imagine our – our life together, away from all this, the war and the pain and…everything."

He finally looked at bit bashful, and dipped his chin, trying to burrow into Arthur's shoulder. Arthur stopped him, met his eyes, kissed him briefly. Let him catch a glimpse of his smile through the darkness.

"I suppose it is, isn't it." He gathered Alfred into the circle of his arms, pressed his face into the dip of his collarbone. "I'm not much for sentiment, you know that, but it is…pleasant to think about. That much I'll admit." He fell silent for a moment, hesitating. He swallowed. "Maybe…a garden. If that would suit you."

Alfred peered up at him, the suggestion of a smile at the edges of his lips. "A garden?"

"In the back." Arthur looked away. "A few flowers, maybe some summer vegetables. Of course, the weather would be rather cold, so I suppose it couldn't be too elaborate. Perhaps some nice shrubs. I would tend to it, of course, you wouldn't have to do a thing. But I've always been partial to…to green, and I think it would be a nice addition, and - "

Alfred was kissing him, with obvious delight, threading his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and pressing him against the pillow, and when he pulled away he was beaming, flushed, eyes two bright pockets of light in the darkness. "We have a backyard?"

Arthur was ferociously embarrassed. "Naturally," he spat, curling into himself a bit. "I won't be seen living in a hovel, no matter your personal tastes."

Alfred grinned, unfazed by his glare, and bundled him into his arms, lips ladnign on his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his eyelids, breath warm.

"We'll have the best garden in town."

"Second-best," groused Arthur. "Otherwise people with talk."

Alfred kissed him briefly at the corner of his mouth. "People will talk no matter what, Arthur."

Arthur swallowed; this was an idea that had been lurking in the back of his mind for some time. He had made a considerable effort to avoid it, but now Alfred had drawn it out into the open, along with everything else in Arthur's heart, even the most twisted and convoluted little bits, spread on an oilcloth like a mechanic's toolbox.

"I suppose they will, yes." Arthur sighed. "But even so, best not to make the other housewives jealous."

Alfred tickled his ribs. "I'm afraid there'll be no helping that, beautiful." But when Arthur didn't bother to push him away, didn't even sour at the endearment, he quieted, and leaned back again the pillow. Arthur came into the crook of his arm, drawing the sheets up around them and focusing on the ceiling.

"It's not fair," said Alfred after a time. Arthur sighed and touched his arm.

"Nothing is."

"But we've already been through so much!" Alfred sat up, voice tearing a bit, and grabbed Arthur's hands feverishly in his own. "We've been broken apart, reunited, had to struggle through all this secrecy, you're going to have to leave your own country, and even then…" He bit down on his lower lip. "Even then it's not going to be easy."

Arthur dipped his head and pressed his hands.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Alfred hissed in frustration. "Don't be sorry, Arthur. It's not your fault. And it's worth all the trouble, anyways, to be with you. I love you, and there's nowhere I'd rather be, nowhere in the world. But there shouldn't be any trouble. Not anymore. We should be safe."

"We are," murmured Arthur. "We'll be safe; we'll be careful."

Alfred shook his head. "We shouldn't have to be careful. It's not fair."

They were quiet for a long time, at a loss for words, until Alfred finally groaned and grabbed Arthur into his arms, kissing him desperately, with a mature and miserable fervor that surprised Arthur, who had long been accustomed to lips as light as the breeze and giggles between the sheets.

"We'll have a garden." Alfred clutched at him, face buried in the crook of his shoulder. "We'll have the best goddamn garden in the world."

Arthur sighed, and held him close, because there was nothing else he could do.

"Yes, Alfred," he murmured. "We will."

* * *

><p>Another few weeks passed, and they couldn't ignore it anymore. They had to tell Arthur's mother. Arthur dropped by one rainy afternoon to organize tea the following day; as he was stepping out the door, he added with an impeccable air of nonchalance that she might also expect Alfred, as they had some very important news to share. As the door shut in his wake, he thought he heard his mother laugh and ask when the baby was due, but he couldn't be sure.<p>

Alfred spent an hour in front of the mirror fidgeting with his hair and the position of his tie. Admittedly, this was rather endearing until it got to where Arthur was doing nothing but chain-smoking and waiting for the decision between the red or the blue silk. At this point he grew somewhat exasperated, muttered that the blue brought out Alfred's eyes, and forced him into his suit jacket without heeding a single complaint. The sun was pale but warm, and the muddy roads had grown firm again overnight, so they made the journey on foot, holding hands and tilting their faces to catch the sunlight.

"Will she hate me?" asked Alfred as they crested the lip of the hill and beheld the sweeping emerald lawns of Arthur's childhood. Arthur chuckled and squeezed his hand.

"I take after her," he replied. "She'll warm up to you."

They were approaching the porch. Alfred glanced down at Arthur past the rims of his glasses. "But first she'll threaten to toss me out of her infirmary?"

Arthur swatted his shoulder and rung the doorbell. The mirth faded from Alfred's expression. He tensed, and tightened his grip on Arthur, as if clinging to her son could make him immune to the mother's scorn. A moment longer and the door swung open to reveal Mrs. Kirkland, regal as always, what with her smart black suit and spectacularly coiffed silver hair. She had put on her pearl necklace for the occasion, Arthur noticed with relief; she was taking this seriously.

Alfred immediately stuck out his hand. "Alfred F. Jones, delighted to be at your service!" He was stumbling over himself, but it was rather endearing. Or at least Arthur had always thought so. His mother took the hand offered and shook delicately, something tugging at the corner of her mouth. Arthur hoped it was a smile.

"Equally delighted to make your acquaintance," she replied creamily. "Do come inside; the tea's just boiling."

Alfred darted inside immediately, letting go of Arthur's hand so as not to drag him helplessly along. With a soft chuckle, Mrs. Kirkland leaned up to kiss Arthur on the cheek, whispering in his ear as she fell back on her heels, "You do know how to pick the handsome ones, don't you?"

Arthur reddened and followed Alfred inside.

"Gee whiz, Mrs. Kirkland," said Alfred when they joined him in the parlor. "That sure is a lot of books!"

Arthur stifled a chuckle behind his hand. His mother smiled. "It certainly is. Thank you for noticing." A sharp whistle from the kitchen; she turned with a gracious dip of the chin. "The water's just boiled. I'll be right back. Do make yourself at home, dear."

Alfred sat down carefully on the velvet loveseat. "Did you hear that?" He was beaming. "She called me dear!"

Arthur didn't have the heart to tell him that his mother addressed most everyone as such; he sat down beside him with nothing but a smile, and reached out to straighten his lapels.

"You're doing fine," he said softly. "Don't be so nervous."

Alfred looked like he wanted to kiss him, and Arthur might not have complained, but a moment later Mrs. Kirkland swept back into the room with the familiar silver tea-tray balanced on one arm. Arthur folded his hands in his lap and prayed that Alfred wasn't turning pink; he had that habit, even when he hadn't actually done anything wrong. It was usually adorable, but today it would be a hindrance.

"Gosh, those sandwiches look great, Mrs. Kirkland," said Alfred with nothing but a twinkle in the eye. "Thank you so much for setting all this out."

"Not at all," replied Arthur's mother. "Please, help yourself."

For a time they drank tea and make small talk; Arthur couldn't deny that he enjoyed watching Alfred jump through hoops to please his mother – it was a bit flattering, maybe, to know that her opinion mattered that much – and in any case he didn't want to bring up a difficult subject too soon. He knew his mother wouldn't fight, that she would feign happiness, but that she wouldn't be pleased to know he was leaving. And admittedly, he wasn't happy to leave her – she wasn't lonely, but she was alone, and he had always liked to be near just in case that ever changed. He loved her, too, of course, and adored her company. He would miss her a great deal, and he didn't like to think about that, not when he had so many happier things to consider.

But the afternoon waned, and the sandwiches ran out, and they were on their fourth cup of tea, and Arthur knew that the inevitable was at hand. He sighed, waited for Alfred to stop explaining the mechanics of an airplane engine, and tapped his shoulder. He fell silent, and with one glance seemed to understand. Arthur cleared his throat.

"Mum," he began, setting down his saucer so that his trembling hands wouldn't make the tea spill. "I told you that we came here with some important news for you."

Mrs. Kirkland nodded, and set down her cup, as well. "Out with it, then. I dislike pretenses."

Arthur chuckled sadly. "I know. So do I. I got that from you, I think." He was stalling. He shook his head.  
>"In any case, mum, Alfred and I…we're…" He looked down. "We're moving to America."<p>

His mother was quiet for a long moment, and then she threw back her head with a soft laugh. Alfred gaped. Arthur raised an eyebrow, unsure of how to construe such a reaction.

"Oh dear," she crowed. "And to think I thought you had come to tell me you were getting married! I _was _wondering where the bloody rings were."

Alfred turned a brilliant scarlet and stared into his tea. Arthur felt his neck flood with head and shook his head violently. He had never considered that. It was an interesting thought, and not necessarily unappealing, but he had no time for it now.

"Mother, please!" He grabbed his saucer and took an unsteady sip of his tea. "We hardly know each other."

His mother smiled. "And yet you're jetting off to another country together, eh? What, I suppose you're going to live in different flats?" But her eyes were shining. "Oh, Arthur, I'm only teasing you. I'm very happy, of course. I'll miss you terribly. But I'm happy all the same."

She turned to Alfred, and smiled warmly.

"You're a good boy. A fool, but a good one. You'll take care of him, won't you?"

Alfred nodded fervently. "Yes. With everything I've got."

Mrs. Kirkland leaned back in her seat. "Well then." She winked at Arthur. "It's settled."

That evening, as they walked back to the hospital, Alfred glanced down at Arthur again over the rims of his glasses.

"A fool?"

Arthur laughed, and kissed him, because he was very happy, and he loved him very much. Everything was set. The connections were made, the trip was planned. It was real. They were going to America, home to Alfred, and a new home for Arthur by his side.

* * *

><p>Time passes quickly when you're on the brink of leaving a place you've grown to like, and people you've grown to love, and it was no exception for them. The weeks were a blur of details and figures, bills and organization, telegrams and phone calls. They barely had time to think, let alone consider the emotional repercussions of jetting off to another country, and hardly even a moment to enjoy each other's presence. And so at the end of the last signature on the last official document, when their passports and visas were stowed safely in their suitcases, it struck Arthur as rather ironic, how much he had missed Alfred while planning their new life together.<p>

But they couldn't mend that just yet – it was the last night, and Francis had cajoled them into drinks at the town with Matthew. Few soldiers were left, so the tavern was quiet, the low light and the throaty hum of the music setting an atmosphere of the horizon just at the brink of dusk. Arthur was careful with his gin; he only wanted to be a little drunk. He didn't want their last night to be a blur, and he certainly didn't want the next day to be nothing but headache and a sour taste in the back of his throat.

"Funny," said Alfred at some point. "Seems like an age ago that I met all of you."

Francis stopped making faces at his glass of red wine in favor of a gentle smile. "Very true." He sighed, running one finger along the dusty countertop. "Days stretch into years during war, do they not?"

Arthur snorted into his glass of gin. Francis glared. Still laughing, Arthur put a hand on his shoulder and gave him an affectionate shake.

"Pardon me, mate, I meant no offense." He took another swig of his gin to clear the burn from his throat. "It's only…that's one of the truest things I've ever heard you say."

Francis smiled, and laughed, too. They all did, but it was a feeble effort. Nostalgia clung to the air, static and sticky, blending into their smiles, their words, their very clothing, it seemed. Matthew, the least prone to pretenses, simply looked openly mournful, not really drinking at all but rather spinning his cocktail stirrer around and around in his full glass. Francis had one arm slung low about his waist (Arthur suspected his fingers were fitted into his pocket, as well, but he didn't want to look for fear that he was correct) and from time to time murmured something into his ear. Arthur was stoic, as always, though his plan to avoid too much to drink was making nonchalance a bit more difficult to feign.

And as for Alfred – well, Alfred was uncharacteristically silent, sitting beside Arthur nursing a glass of bourbon and gazing pensively off into nothing. It occurred to Arthur that he looked older, much older, and that it wasn't just a trick of the light anymore. The scars were still faintly visible in places, the palms of his hands, the slope of his neck, where the skin was very tender. Arthur wanted to run his fingers over them, kiss them, but he didn't, of course, and blamed the impulse on the gin, even though his glass was still halfway full.

"You alright?" he managed at some point, after Francis had swept Matthew away, dancing over the deserted floor to the soft lilt of a waltz. Alfred glanced at him and smiled gently.

"Are you?"

Arthur chuckled. "Rather, I suppose."

He reached carefully beneath the counter and found Alfred's knee. A while later Alfred reached down, too, and their fingers wound together. They sat in comfortable silence, absorbing each other, and watching Matthew and Francis spin across the floor.

"I'll miss them," murmured Alfred.

"So will I." Arthur squeezed his hand. "But this isn't the last time we'll all see each other, love. That much I can promise you."

Alfred shook his head. "You're right. War has a funny habit of binding us to people." He met Arthur's eyes. "Binding us to people forever…"

A tense moment of silence during which Arthur wondered what was going to happen. Alfred looked down and pushed up his glasses.

"Arthur, I want…"

Francis slung his arm around Arthur's shoulder, sloppily kissed his cheek, crowed some form of drunken endearment in French, and begged the barkeep for another round. Hardly a moment later, Matthew darted past, flushing and apologizing profusely. Arthur sighed and wiped the taste of red wine from his cheek. Alfred was covering his mouth with one hand, trying not to laugh.

"Shut up, you," hissed Arthur, and turned back to his gin, grateful. His heart was still stuttering in his chest. He knew what Alfred was planning to say, but he wasn't upset to have been interrupted. There was a time and place for everything, and now wasn't it. The time for their relationship – their future, everything they would be – was later. Now was a time for friends. Arthur smiled privately and allowed a wave of nostalgia to wash through his heart as he watched Francis try to sneak a kiss from Matthew behind the bar.

And what good friends they were, indeed.

* * *

><p>Maybe he did have a bit too much, Arthur considers. Or maybe not. Maybe it was only just the thrill of not having seen each other for too long. Maybe that. Either way, his head was spinning. The world shifted and swung about beneath his feet; it was all he could do to cling to Alfred, and that was alright, because Alfred was clinging to him, too, so maybe his world was shifting and swinging right along to the rhythm of Arthur's heartbeat, which seems to be the tempo for his own lack of balance, at least. Arthur found that he was surprisingly happy at the thought, and e tilted his face up for another kiss, and another, and another. It was so many at that point that he'd lost count. But that was a good thing. Alfred tasted like bourbon and tobacco and something sweet, maybe chocolate, like he did on the night when they first kissed, which seemed like a century ago, but Arthur wasn't sure. No matter what, though, it was a good thing. A very good thing.<p>

They were in his room, the one off to the side of his office with the creaking bed. Alfred felt about blindly for the light switch, one hand pressed against Arthur's back to support his weight, the other nestled somewhere at the nape of his neck, tilting his head perhaps a bit forcefully to get better leverage on his mouth. That was alright, too; it set Arthur's blood on fire when Alfred was a bit forceful, because really he was so gentle, and the juxtaposition was nice, very nice, fit for literature, he might even venture.

At some point they fell onto the bed, and Arthur realized that his shirt came undone at his shoulders. Alfred had gotten to the buttons at some moment between the door and the mattress, and now he was diving into his collarbone, the valley of his chest. Arthur sighed and dug his hands into his hair, arched from the sheets. Alfred had lost his boots, his jacket, and his oxford. His chest and arms were sinuous beneath the papery fabric of his undershirt, and Arthur did his best to follow the rise and fall of the ribbons of muscle, trace every last powerful curve, commit it to memory, even.

Alfred mumbled some garbled version of his name into his neck, and Arthur combed at his hair, nipped at the shell of his ear, whispering encouragement. His buckle melted away, then his trousers, and then Alfred had to get up to kick away his socks, and Arthur whined but he was back soon, warm and heavy and full in his arms. His hands burned trails over his body, up the dip of his stomach, the individual ravines of his ribs, anywhere and everywhere, and Arthur was getting fed up, it was about time something happened, and he rather sharply told Alfred so.

There was the awkward scramble of preparation. Arthur grit his teeth and let Alfred kiss him, murmur encouragement in his ear, mostly broken words but important nonetheless. They were a bit out of practice, but after a while Arthur was ready, and he clung to Alfred, tipped his head back, and closed his eyes, waiting for the beginning.

It was sloppy at first, like always, because they were both too eager, like always. It seemed Arthur could never quite absorb enough of Alfred. It was selfish, really, that he always wanted so much more, but he couldn't help himself. In any case, eventually they found a rhythm, and it was clumsy but unabashedly good. Sometime later, amidst the low creak of the bedsprings, the murmur of the sheets, the sound of Alfred's breath in his ear, his mouth at the curve of his jaw, Arthur melted, and then Alfred came with a gentle cry, and they lay there panting for a long moment, spent.

Arthur stood unsteadily, cleaned up, and went to turn out the light. Alfred was already asleep between the sheets when he returned, but it didn't matter. He contentedly slipped into the circle of his arms, nestling his forehead on his chest with a tenderness he might not have shown had he been awake.

Arthur closed his eyes and said that he loved him, just under his breath. Upon hearing the reply, murmured on the soft tones of a dream, he allowed himself to slip into sleep, away onto the first step towards a New World which he and Alfred were going to build together, from the very start.


	14. Fin

A real house was too much. Alfred had forgotten the honest costs of living in Boston, and the medical school wasn't ready to pay Arthur as much as they needed, no matter his seniority, no matter how the economy boomed. At first they were disappointed, and Arthur privately worried that the tiny future they had stitched together was already coming apart at the seams. Maybe it wasn't meant to be after all. Maybe the war was too much. But Alfred, of course, just smiled and said they would be fine with an apartment, and kissed Arthur in the cheap hotel they had rented with just the same fervor as before, and chased away his doubts as he clutched him and whispered over and over again that he loved him like he would never get tired of saying it.

They found an apartment in the center of the city. There was not the beautiful garden that Arthur had imagined, but rather a small box that jutted precariously from the windowsill, and some pots on the roof that the landlord let Arthur prune in his spare time. He knew in the spring there wouldn't be tomatoes and lettuce and peppers, but rather some straggly marigolds and a few sprigs of basil that Alfred could toss into dinner every now and again. And there was no sweeping porch or extravagant foyer or neat parlor to entertain guests, but rather a suspicious flight of steps down to the street and a tiny balcony with chipped red paint and rusted metal bars and two plastic chairs that molded when it rained.

There was no pretty walkway with smiling children and beautiful wives clutching the arms of their husbands who had at last come home from the war. Instead there was dirt and the roar of the city and soot that sometimes thickened on their window, and exhaust and cigarette smoke in the air, and people everywhere shouting and laughing and making love in the room above so that the feet of the bed slammed against the ceiling. It wasn't what Arthur imagined, but he signed the contract. It wasn't what Arthur imagined, but when the landlord left and Alfred grabbed him by the waist and wheeled him slowly into his arms without paying any heed to his protests, he thought that maybe it wasn't so bad.

Alfred kissed him thoroughly. He always kissed thoroughly; he wasn't the type to hold back, and when Arthur put his arms around his neck he could taste everything he felt right there on his mouth, and he almost wanted to shy away in embarrassment because Alfred was so proud and happy that he suddenly felt acutely ashamed of himself and wanted to hide. He ducked away and pressed his face into Alfred's neck. He felt his hands pressing into the small of his back, dragging a slow rhythm over his sides, dipping up and under his shirt.

"Look at us," whispered Alfred. His breath was hot against Arthur's ear. "After all this time we've finally found a home."

Arthur laughed and leaned away from Alfred's shoulder to look at his face in wonderment. "You're impossible, you know," he murmured. "I don't know how you do it."

Alfred knit his brow. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing," whispered Arthur. He stretched up and kissed the corner of Alfred's lips. "I love you, you know."

Alfred smiled and kissed Arthur properly. "I love you, too." His thumbs were still pressed into Arthur's hipbones, and he started to grin, eyes bright behind his smudged glasses. "Should I go bring out the mattress so that we can start getting settled?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and pushed at his chest, but Alfred only grinned harder and scampered away victoriously. Arthur went to the window as Alfred pulled out the mattress and some pillows and pushed the whole mess towards the center of the floor. It was a cold day and the city was awash in the freezing white light of the sun; Arthur sighed and rubbed at his arms, and then Alfred was there with his hands snaking up to Arthur's ribcage, tapping at each nuance of bone.

"I can't believe I'm really here with you," whispered Alfred. Arthur shivered a deep shiver that shook all the way up his spine and turned in Alfred's arms and really kissed him, digging his fingers into his hair and arching into the receptive curve of his waist.

"Me neither," he murmured, and then Alfred was pulling away to wrestle out of his shirt, and Arthur put his hands on his chest and collarbone and breathed deeply the smell of his skin. Alfred eased open the buttons of Arthur's shirt and pulled him into his arms; they kissed again, and Arthur felt that their skin was melting and would be stuck together for a very long time if they weren't careful enough.

"The mattress," said Alfred in a low voice. "Arthur, the mattress."

Arthur could feel him jutting hard against his thigh. He bit down on his lower lip and pressed his palm to the dip at his waist and smiled to feel him gasp. Alfred held him possessively and pressed him into the mattress and kissed him, only breaking away reluctantly to take off his glasses and put them to the side where they wouldn't break or get too foggy. Arthur was tired from traveling and felt like his whole body had gone pliable in an instant. He didn't have the energy to be aggressive, so he only sighed and pressed softly against Alfred in a silent invitation.

Alfred leaned away to undo his trousers, and Arthur, on a ridiculous impulse, took off his socks as well. They pressed naked together and Arthur felt Alfred tremble profoundly. A rough callused palm closed around his cock; Arthur gasped like he was drowning, like his throat was sandpaper, like he never needed to breathe again. Alfred kissed his throat and mumbled something unintelligible; he moved down to his collarbone and then back to his lips.

"I'm not gonna make it very far," he blurted.

"Me neither." Arthur clutched at his back, jutting his hips upwards just so, and Alfred groaned as their cocks brushed together. "It's fine like this."

"I love you," mumbled Alfred. "I love you."

"Hush." But Arthur pushed him away just a bit to get a good hold of his face. He ran his thumb slowly up and down his cheekbone, over his face, stopping at the plush curve of his lower lip. "You don't have to say that all the time. I know."

"I like to say it, though," whispered Alfred. "It's selfish. I just like reminding myself."

Arthur swallowed hard. Then Alfred's tongue darted out to wet his thumb, still balanced at the curve of his lower lip, and he pulled away with a low laugh even as he tangled his arms more closely around Alfred's neck.

"You fool," he murmured.

"I know," said Alfred cheerfully. "Hey, now who's the talkative one, Arthur?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, but then Alfred was kissing him again, and then he wasn't thinking about anything much in particular except for the gentle roll of his hips, easy and unhurried like the tide on a sunny day, the warm envelope of his arms, the taste of coffee and toothpaste and tobacco on his lips, the pressure of each fingertip on the bend of Arthur's back and the swell of his behind. Alfred was pressing them tight together for friction, and Arthur was rearing forwards into him, hands tangled mercilessly in his hair, unwilling to let him have even an inch of room as though he were always on the verge of escape, somehow fugacious instead of powerfully tethered right there where he was most needed in the circle of Arthur's arms.

"Close," he murmured into the burning bend of Arthur's neck.

"Me too." It sounded so faint in Arthur's ears that he wasn't sure if the words were really his, or if they belonged to someone else, someone outside of his body who was somehow worthy of all this, of everything. The room was blurry except for Alfred made out in too-sharp focus, smiling stupidly, smiling like someone in love, because of course he was in love, in love with Arthur, even though Arthur himself still had trouble believing it sometimes. And when Alfred jutted forwards one last time and Arthur came in his hand, he felt that he could memorize every detail of his face perfectly in just an instant, and he kissed him desperately, groaned his name into his lips as though he had stolen it and was somehow possessed of the right to give it back. Alfred grunted softly, and then he was spent, and pressed his face deep into Arthur's chest.

At some point, Alfred rolled a little ways away, still breathing heavily, and Arthur curled into the curve of his body and shoulder and laid one hand on his stomach, idly tapping a rhythm on his ribs. He heard Alfred laugh and looked up at his face. He was smiling and his eyes were bright and Arthur wanted to look away but he couldn't.

"What's got you on?"

Alfred grinned. "Not a house."

"Shut up," said Arthur. But then he blinked and propped himself up on one elbow and kissed Alfred softly as if they had all the time in the world to just live and kiss each other again and again until their mouths were sore and swollen. He hoped Alfred would understand what he really meant to say, even if he couldn't put it to words because he was too prideful, of course, always too prideful. Of course it wasn't a house; that much was painfully certain. But lying there on an old mattress staring up at a spotted ceiling with the roar of the city just outside the window, head propped on Alfred's shoulder with his breath at his throat and his flavor still on his lips, it was, at the very least, a home.

* * *

><p>The time passed more quickly than Arthur would have expected. He had forgotten, perhaps, that in America everything was faster and brighter, and that nobody ever quite had enough time to do everything they wanted to do because really there was just so much. Work was demanding, of course, but Arthur was used to that; he had been a doctor all his life and he knew the costs. Having been his patient, Alfred was of course a little spoiled, and at first he resented his long absences and his occasional desertions in the middle of the night, leaving the bed (they had exchanged the mattress for a real model long ago) a little colder.<p>

Things happened fast in the whole world, too, maybe because America had grown so strong and reached so far that now they set the tempo for everyone else. In any case, the war ended at long last, and suddenly Arthur didn't know what to do anymore. Celebrations erupted in New York and he wandered the house aimlessly and thought about pruning his tiny garden without actually doing a thing. Alfred was fastened to the radio and Arthur didn't bother to pry him away. It was him home, after all. It was his victory and he deserved to have it.

That night they ate sandwiches because neither of them had thought to cook anything. They were too immersed in the idea that the war was really over, that everything was really finished, and that now everyone could begin to heal wounds that ran so deep that nobody honestly knew how far they reached yet. The table was silent; they were both lost in thought. At some point, Arthur swallowed and got up and put on the kettle for tea. When he came back, Alfred suddenly lunged forwards and grabbed his hand, and pulled him hurtling down into a kiss so deep and jarring that Arthur couldn't respond because the table was biting too painfully into his side and he was breathless, without words.

"Sorry," said Alfred, gasping, glasses crooked.

"That's alright." Arthur eased away from the table, but he let Alfred twine their fingers together. "What was that about?"

Alfred shook his head. "Just c'mere, babe."

Arthur sat on his lap and put his arms around his neck and pressed their foreheads together because it was too serious a moment to be reluctant or coy.

"I can't believe it," whispered Alfred.

"Me neither," said Arthur. "It's wonderful, and yet I feel a little bit lost. It's insane, I know."

Alfred reached up to tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear, fingertips soft, eyes wide and unbearably, unbearably blue. "Insane? Why's that?"

Arthur ducked his chin. "The war has been everything for so long. When you think about it, it's what brought me to you. I don't really know what to do without it."

Alfred looked at him for a long moment, and then he laughed, and Arthur flinched.

"What? What's funny?"

Alfred grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him hard and Arthur couldn't really be mad when he tasted so urgent against his mouth. His other arm curled powerfully around Arthur's waist and Arthur had to cling to his shirt to keep his balance, cautiously leaning into the kiss.

"Nothing's funny at all, Arthur," gasped Alfred as he pulled away and cradled Arthur's face in his hands, thumbs framing his cheekbones, his eyes. "It's just that it was the exact same thing I was thinking."

* * *

><p>And it was the most amazing thing. Once the war was over, it was quiet. Life was quiet. And most surprisingly of all, life was good. Arthur couldn't remember life ever being this good. Sometimes he was lonely and homesick and tired, but Alfred understood, and after a few shouting matches he learned that it was better to leave him alone than to attempt to appeal to his better nature. Likewise Alfred sometimes still woke shaking in the middle of the night, and Arthur held him unabashedly and ran his hands through his hair over and over again until he fell asleep with his face pressed into the curve of his shoulder.<p>

They lived comfortably. Arthur moved up quickly even at such a prestigious medical school, and soon every doctor knew his name. In the fall, Alfred got a job as a schoolteacher, explaining sums and formulas to elementary school students that clamored for his attention and crowded around his legs and asked about his wife every other day. Sometimes Arthur had the time to take lunch with him, and nobody ever looked at them twice, even when Alfred laughed and tried to bat Arthur's foot underneath the table. Not even their landlord asked any questions, and Arthur sometimes wondered if he and Alfred simply seemed too exhausted to be anything more than old friends catching up, or maybe if everyone was simply willing to let them alone, seeing that, after all, they were very, very tired.

It would be a long time before they had the money to buy a house, but that was alright. The apartment was snug and homely, and Arthur had begun to develop little sentimentalities that he found tucked into corners, shoved up beneath the windowpane, between the sheets of their bed; nothing tangible, of course, just the shadow of a feeling when he woke up on a Sunday morning with Alfred breathing softly at his side, glasses askew. The shadow of a feeling that here he needed to be more than any other place in the whole world, that here was where he belonged. That he wanted to stay there forever.

It was a little frightening, to be honest. Arthur had loved Alfred for what felt like his entire life, but to become so entirely and helplessly engrossed in him was terrifying, especially after everything that had happened. He wanted to resist at first, but of course Alfred broke him down in that magic way of his, wearing him down with kisses and stupid little thoughts dropped between the pillows, and breakfast on the table when Arthur stumbled home from work in the morning after twelve hours bent over bleeding patients with the smell of antiseptic sharp in his nose. In short, Arthur loved Alfred more than he could comprehend, and he didn't know what to do with that.

Winter came around sooner or later, and one evening Alfred came home with a giant tree that scraped against their ceiling and frightened the cat they had gotten the last month under the table. Arthur wanted to protest, but Alfred smiled brightly and kissed him with the scent of pine in his hair and the cold still on his lips, and he couldn't bring himself to say a word. They decorated the tree together over the next few weeks, stringing up long glittering stretches of tinsel and winking lights, and at last crowning the top with a clear glass angel that Alfred bought at the store down the road.

"It's beautiful," said Alfred at last, just a few days before Christmas. He stepped down from the ladder and snagged Arthur into his arms by the waist. "Our first real Christmas together."

"I don't know about that," murmured Arthur, kissing the tip of his nose. "How would you classify _real_?"

"Alright, professor." Alfred rolled his eyes affectionately. "The best one so far, then"

Arthur smiled and kissed him again, because these days it seemed he just couldn't bring himself to stop.

"Agreed."

* * *

><p>Christmas Eve. Alfred had made sugar cookies that morning because he said it was a tradition, and then called his mother earlier that afternoon and talked to her for hours. It was evening and he was still talking, and Arthur had put on the kettle and was sitting on the couch with the light of the tree casting shadows over the room. At last he heard Alfred hang up the phone and come padding contentedly into the living room. Without a moment's hesitation, he curled up on the couch and pressed close to Arthur's side, jarring his tea gently, not enough to spill.<p>

"Watch it," said Arthur reproachfully, but Alfred just kissed the top of his forehead.

"Arthur," sighed Alfred into his hair. "You never told me what you wanted for Christmas."

"I don't want anything," murmured Arthur. He was trying to sound irritable but he kept running his hand up and down Alfred's thigh. "I thought we weren't going to do gifts this year."

He could almost feel Alfred smile. "I've never been very good with listening. Close your eyes."

"Alfred," said Arthur darkly. "You shouldn't have."

"Close you eyes, Arthur."

Arthur frowned ferociously and closed his eyes. Nonetheless, he continued: "You really shouldn't have. And I know when people say that kind of thing, it usually means that they're grateful and such, and just trying to seem polite, but let me assure you: that is not the case in this situation. You're going to make me look like an insensitive fool because now I ought to have gotten you a secret present, too, and I really haven't because we _promised _we wouldn't. I'm really very angry right now; I'm just being nice to you because I also happen to feel bad. You should consider yourself lucky, you know."

"The luckiest man in the world," murmured Alfred softly. It was strange; his voice was drenched with amusement, but at the same time Arthur could hear a little tickle of nervousness in the back of his throat. As if to confirm, he cleared his throat, and the sound was jumpy, erratic. "Open your eyes."

Arthur opened his eyes. Alfred was on the floor. Arthur realized with a wave of nausea what this had to be. He didn't know what to do, so he just sat there, fixated on that little glimpse of gold.

"Um," said Alfred. "I love you, Arthur. I think we should get married."

"We _can't _get married," groaned Arthur. "It's against the goddamn law."

Alfred laughed nervously. "I meant it in the metaphorical sense."

Arthur glared at him fiercely. "I'm very angry about all this, you know."

Alfred swallowed so hard his throat almost convulsed.

"Angry?"

Arthur sat forwards and leaned down so that their faces were level.

"I wanted to ask you something for once."

Alfred looked at him in confusion and Arthur rolled his eyes and took his face in his hands.

"I wanted to be the one to propose, you idiot. I love you more than I can say and I wanted to do something about it. I was going to do it tomorrow morning. Actual Christmas morning, when you're _supposed _to give gifts. But you've beaten me to the punch." He closed his eyes and kissed him on the forehead. "Oh well. I suppose you have always been the impetuous one."

Alfred's hands were shaking. "Is that a yes?"

"Yes," said Arthur. "An angry yes, at least. I will marry you."

"Angrily," said Alfred softly, eyes twinkling. "You'll marry me angrily."

"Yes," said Arthur. They were looking at each other now and it was a little absurd just how involved he felt in Alfred's expression. "Very angrily."

Alfred grinned and they kissed, and Arthur sort of fell forwards into Alfred so that they rolled painfully back onto the floor, and they started laughing halfway through the kiss and the tiny box with the ring flew halfway across the room, and it wasn't really romantic at all.

"We're hopeless," murmured Alfred against his lips. "But I wouldn't have us any other way."

And really, neither would Arthur.

_Fin_

* * *

><p>AN – It's been a year since I started this fic I am SO SORRY. Thank you so much for your support and readership! As always, all my love and adoration to the lovely trumpet-geek, who helped me so much with pretty much every aspect of this story.<p>

You all are fabulous! Thanks for sticking with me all this time. I may see you again, but it's doubtful. The USUK fandom has been nothing but good to me, and I want to thank you profoundly for your attention and your friendship. As an aside, you can always reach me over at tumblr (worldaccording or worldaccordingwrites), where I'll be publishing drabbles from time to time. Thanks again, and all my deepest love.


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